The Story of Curt and Arthur
by Velvetbabe
Summary: In the film, the two men meet up accidently in a bar, ten years after their encounter on the rooftop. This is the story of a relationship that ensues from that day forward. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This is my very first foray into Curt/Arthur-land after 2 lengthy and involved, unfinished and in fact never ending Brian and Curt stories. I always considered myself a B/C gal, but after reading some decent C/A stories, which took place after they met up as adults - ten years after they had sex on the rooftop as seen in the film - which is the timeframe in this story, I saw the potential those two had. They in fact have way more true potential as a couple than B/C - as they were written in the film - realistically ever could, and this intrigued me enough to give it a go.

This is also my first foray into a mainly third person narrative, instead of hearing from inside the heads of Curt, Brian, or both. I still consider first person to be much more difficult to write and therefore have a bit more respect for that way of writing, but anyway ... here goes nothin'.

I also want to mention that in the film the timeframe is, as best as I remember, something like 1984. Seeing as computers, or at least personal computers (desktop, laptop, tablet), did _not_ exist then, please suspend your disbelief. While I have computers existing, I do _not_ have cell phones, as I knew it would inevitably lead to texting and I didn't want to go there.

Hope you enjoy. Feedback, as always, is appreciated.

* * *

 **The Story of Curt and Arthur**

* * *

Curt's head is propped against a pillow, elbow bent behind him, exhaling smoke through terse, tight lips, ignoring Arthur in the doorway.

 _So what's next, then_ , he wants to ask. _Anal cavity search?_

He _wants_ to say it; it's right on the tip of his tongue. He _wants_ to, only at the moment, Curt and Arthur aren't speaking.

* * *

It's the reminder, mostly, the rubbing it in thing, that he hates; that's gnawed at him forever.

 _Other people can have this,_ it says. _Y_ _ou can't have this_.

'This' being a "relationship". A healthy one, anyway. Successful, or at least, half way working. _Real_.

 _Define 'real'._

 _Okay, first, obviously you rule out anything smack-based. Second ... how 'bout one where the guy actually trusts when you tell him things? How 'bout, you move in together, and it doesn't disintegrate within a few weeks or months over stupid goddamn shit? Is that seriously too much to ask?_

Apparently. But it's not like the odds were any good, nor that Curt didn't know this. Arthur is ... what's that old term? A "catch". Curt isn't used to "catches" because those types, well balanced, healthy, successful types, people with shit going on and bright futures, hang out with _each other._ They sure as hell never hang or even interact with dirtbag has-been losers, (except maybe when the latter clears their plates at a restaurant). Arthur's young - just turned 27, and with that thick head of dark chocolate brown hair and matching puppy dog eyes, looks younger. He's still asked to show ID when buying beer, for fuck's sake.

The fact that Arthur is clueless in this one area, having no knowledge of his own "catch-ness", makes him all the more so. Here's a kid who has reason to act like a yuppie shitbag, to have that entitled, annoyingly confident fratboy personality: advanced degrees in English and journalism; a great new flat in a cool part of central London, and an exciting job - _career_ \- that he loves, that he's good at, which, notwithstanding that one lame assignment of investigating the fall of Brian Slade, is definitely on the rise. The pay's decent, and, to boot, the work involves travel. Curt could easily see him as one of those foreign correspondent types, dapper in a flack jacket, heroically reporting from some war zone.

Curt, by contrast, is penniless, looking at 36, and fresh off his fourth methadone stint. By all accounts save a precious few, he has failed at his chosen 'career'.

Curt, in contrast to Arthur, to most people, for that matter, is pretty much going fucking nowhere.

* * *

 _It's the order of things, remember?_ Curt says to himself. Y _our half of the relationship, the addict, or ex-addict half (does it really matter either way?), you're the one with no rights. Certainly no privacy. The responsible half, the one with the regular income, the one whose place it is, mind you, who could, of course - everyone knows it, everyone tells him - have worlds better than you ... is entitled to rifle through your shit ... the worthless collection of secondhand trash you call your 'possessions' ... in order to search the old hiding places that you stupidly once told him about ... right?_

 _And why is that?_

 _Because_ _8 months clean - sparkling fucking squeaky total virginass clean ..._

 _Is not enough._

 _It will never be enough._

* * *

Arthur's friends all warned him, Stef and Judy and Bob and his cousin Steven, even going so far as to stage a fucking intervention: Let him move in? What idiot trusts a junkie who's lapsed, what, 4, 5 times? Six months 'clean'? Eight months? Not good enough. Ask Curt to move in when he's been clean, _verifiably_ clean, for _five sold years._ We're not kidding. Even then, check his arrest record - junkies lie, Arthur - check with the fucking cops, _beforehand_.

 _"Don't do this,"_ Stef had warned him in an email. Because it wasn't enough to sit him down for a surprise/enforced meeting in a small windowless room. It had to be followed up on _in writing. "I know you've been lonely, and running into him by accident after a decade - this guy you idolized, this guy who took your virginity and helped you accept your sexuality - feels all 'fate-y' and romantic. I know you think you might love him in real grown up life now, not a teen fantasy anymore, and now here he is on your doorstep. Of course it's tempting. Of course it seems irresistible. As someone who genuinely, actually loves and cares about you, Arthur, I'm telling you, I'm begging you, to resist."_

His favorite part is the "genuinely, actually" bit. As if Curt was incapable of having "genuine, actual" feelings for someone.

* * *

But, stepping back, how does he even know about this stuff to begin with? The intervention, the email?

Their flat may be fancy, at least, compared with what Curt is used to, but they share a fucking computer. And no, he did _not_ approach it that day intending to spy. He actually respects Arthur enough not to do that. Only problem being, Curt, ever between his menial sources of income, was home all day, and Arthur had dashed off to some last second assignment and left the fucking thing wide open. Not the email itself; the email _account_. Just wide fucking open. It was nine weeks in. Nine good goddamn weeks. The honeymoon.

* * *

He innocently shook the mouse intending to log into his own account, but there was Arthur's, all naked and inviting, with these small yellow folders on the left side. A few weeks previous, he and Arthur had beaten off together to the contents of one of the folders - Arthur's small but super hot porn stash. Seeing as he was preoccupied at the time, the other folders (Arthur was annoyingly organized), stuff relating to work or to friends, including one labelled "Stef", had gone unnoticed.

Curt clicked on the porn folder, telling himself he would not sit here in the middle of the day and masturbate - he merely wanted to see if there was any new content. There was. Curt ignored what he had told himself a minute before, and masturbated. Afterwards, feeling guilty, feeling like a loser, he compounded the situation by clicking on a private email folder meant for his boyfriend. Even though it was disrespectful. Even though it was an invasion.

Stef's barely concealed dislike for him was just that - barely concealed, and it made him upset. Not because he needed to be liked by Arthur's friends - he was used to the family and friends of his current flame, if he met them at all (rare), disliking him or looking unfavorably on the match. And, while he was admittedly paranoid, with Stef, he sensed a particularly intense, vehement disapproval, which would be shitty if it were true, if only because it would put Arthur in the cruel, impossibly difficult position of feeling like he had to choose between his closest, oldest friend, and his boyfriend.

He clicked on the folder because he wanted to know if Stef was doing this to the person he was genuinely, actually falling in love with.

* * *

Arthur and Stephanie grew up together. They were born on the same day in fact; best friends since their first week of school. She is, she even jokes about it, his fag hag. Arthur came out to her first, way early - age 10. She knew already of course, her gaydar had been screaming about him for years, despite how straight acting Arthur was (still is.) The two of them have the classic, super intense, irreducible bond that only a fag and his hag seem to share. Which sounds pretty sweet, maybe, such intimacy and trust, but Curt has seen it before - the near complete lack of any boundaries that can happen when you share a secret with one person from _that_ young an age, a secret so dire, so explosive and potentially ruinous, that in some circles, such as the one Arthur grew up in, it can literally get you killed, or at least, beaten to a holy pulp.

It can certainly cause you to be disowned. Which is exactly what happened. Arthur's parents were old - nearly 50 when they had him; super straight, super strict, and definitely old world religious. Arthur was their first and only only child after two decades of trying, their golden miracle baby, gifted to them at the last possible moment; a handsome, smart, quiet, well behaved, perfect little angel of a boy, everyone agreed.

The only problem being, this one small thing; this one tiny, deadly secret. His father said he loved him but could not possibly forgive or respect him if he chose this sick, sinful path; if he did not 'repent'. He told him, and Arthur believed it, that he would have looked on him more favorably had he been a murderer.

It's been 7 years. They have neither spoken nor seen each other since. His parents hear about him, or at least, his mother does, he recently found out; just a rough outline, from time to time, via Arthur's nosy Aunt Ruth - his successes at university and at work; his new London flat. But no, nothing at all, please, about his "private life".

* * *

By virtue of the fact that Curt is lying here, in Arthur's bed, in a flat he has called home since September last year - that would be 6 months on Saturday - Arthur obviously chose to ignore the many dire warnings he received, and asked Curt to move in.

In truth, even Curt didn't know if it was a good idea. He really, really dug Arthur, and, y'know, why fuck with a good thing?

Move in, though, he did, for several reasons, not the least being that Curt had no place to live, having just been kicked out of his ex-girlfriend's brother's back room for "failure to contribute" i.e. an inability to hold steady enough employment to help pay something, anything, towards the fucking rent. He had pretty much exhausted the good will of any still remaining friends, and the only other option aside from sleeping on their couches for a few more weeks or months would be to move back in with people who were using; his former heroin buddies ... but he knew all too well where that would lead, so, no.

There _was_ one other option, but it was dead last on the list, even beyond smack houses, to be used only in the most dire circumstances, and even then, to be very carefully weighed: contacting his brother. It was something he had done a few of times over the years, when absolutely desperate for cash. Curt figured the bastard sure as fuck owed him, and he tried not to be bothered when he had readily handed over the money, knowing full well that Curt wasn't using it for food or rent, as he claimed, but for 'H'.

And so, amongst all of these pitiful and depressing options, here was Arthur; soft spoken, introverted, earnest young Arthur with that shy smile and innocent, geek boy charm, not even a cigarette having passed his pretty lips, asking Curt to _please, please move in_. He'd never had such a big place before, he said. It'd be a shame to waste it.

* * *

They'd met up again by weird accident, via the piece on Slade. Arthur had just interviewed the bar's owner, who used to know Brian, but was not exactly forthcoming with information, and then headed to the quieter, far end of the place with his beer, only to happen upon, without warning, holy fucking shit, _Curt Wild_ , _in the flesh_ \- yes, it was _actually_ him - huddled in a corner, looking amazing in long, loose ponytail and worn leather jacket.

Arthur nearly shat himself.

Did the man have any idea the impact - the _seismic_ impact - he had had on a young Arthur Stuart? On a boy who had grown up with the deepest possible shame over his own desires? Who believed he was - as society and the entire medical establishment said at the time - "intrinsically disordered"? A boy who felt extraordinarily isolated and alone, who, when he had tried, over and over, and failed, to 'fix' himself, had seriously contemplated suicide?

Only to discover, one day ... that the sky had opened up, that the world had gone from stark, hostile black and white, to glorious, free flowing technicolor. The images, the news reports, were suddenly everywhere. It could be argued they had saved his life.

Brian and Curt, leaning in close for a kiss. Brian and Curt, toying with sexual innuendo at a press conferences. The two photographed, topless, alone together on a private beach ... arriving, arm in arm, at the red carpet ... on some stately veranda, eating breakfast in their loosely tied silk robes.

Most incredible, most extraordinary of all, and the thing that caused Arthur - who never, ever missed school - to feign illness two days running in order to stay home and furiously masturbate ... the notorious on stage, mid-song, in fact, mid _guitar solo_ simulation of _fellatio ..._

There is no way to adequately convey the impact it had on him; how truly ground breaking and taboo-obliterating a thing it was _._ Back before there was such a thing as gay porn - well before computers, well before the existence of a single gay dirty magazine (not that Arthur could possibly have taken the risk of buying one), the grainy black and white image of his idols, this pair of staggeringly beautiful rock and roll superstars whom absolutely everyone wanted to be, and fuck ... purposely, and with style, artful choreography and yes, glamour ... _aping man on man oral sex_ ... essentially set Arthur's whole being on fire, to the point where it was weeks before anyone could reach him.

* * *

Yes. The world changed. Briefly, though no one knew that at the time, _but still._ It was to the point where, at his private, conservative school, overnight, his type went from outcast/untouchable, from being shunned, bullied and beaten, to envied, desired, and emulated. Even the straight boys, for the first time in maybe ever, wanted to be queer.

* * *

And then, somehow, on a magical winter evening, there was Curt Wild, on a rooftop, beckoning a star struck, painfully insecure boy. For the first time, making him feel beautiful; for the first time, making him feel whole.

Pretty much, Arthur was never the same.

* * *

"You're Curt Wild," he blurted dumbly to the man at the table, wondering if there was any chance Curt would recognize him.

Curt, looking displeased, snapped, "Ya, who the hell are _you?"_

Guess not.

Mortified, Arthur slowly shook his head. "Nobody. Nobody. I'm just a reporter. Interviewed the owner, tonite. Didn't mean to disturb you."

Curt grunted, taking a swig of his beer.

"I'll leave you alone," Arthur said, tail between his legs, turning to go,

"What were you interviewing him about?"

Knowing perhaps a little more than the average reporter about the bitter personal history between Brian Slade and Curt Wild, and figuring that the former would be the last person the latter would want to hear about, Arthur lied.

"Just," he shrugged, "a local ordinance. Dull."

"Well, more interesting than how I spent _my_ evening," he said glumly, flicking ashes at the small, crumpled up piece of paper in the ashtray before him.

Arthur peered in at it, and noticed an oversized "T" - Tommy Stone's logo.

"You saw the show tonite?"

"Ya," Curt said, with disgust.

Arthur laughed. "No good?"

" _Sucked_." He half grinned and pointed to Arthur's tape recorder. "And you can _print_ that."

Arthur smiled. The man might not recognize him - I mean, how many fans did he sleep with per week, per _night,_ back then? - but it didn't mean they couldn't have a conversation.

"Ya, you know, I hate to sound old and out of it, but his stuff seems so bloody ... _corporate_."

Curt nodded. "Right. _Manufactured_. Artists _used_ to create beautiful things. That was our _job_."

"I guess he's maybe ... not much of an artist."

"Nope. More like a _product_. And I'm _proud_ by the way," Curt smiled, "to sound - to _be_ \- old and out of it."

Arthur took a breath, and screwed up his courage.

"You look great, actually," he said, meaning it. "Sorry," he said, extending his hand, "I'm a fan."

" _No_ shit," Curt laughed, shaking Arthur's. "I didn't think I, or _Brian_ , had any left."

Their hands froze. Arthur had not said a word about Brian.

Curt grinned.

"The owner of this place is sort of a friend of mine," he said quietly. "He told me some guy was coming by to ask him questions tonite, about Slade."

"Oh," Arthur said, a bit embarrassed at having lied.

"He's not gonna tell you anything, y'know."

"Ya. Wasted trip," he shrugged.

"What exactly were you hoping to find out?"

"Just ... what the hell happened. I was around, then. He was, y'know, a _god_."

Curt grinned. "He was."

"And then he completely fucking disappeared."

 _"Poof!_ Gone."

"Ya. It had meant a lot to me, the whole thing, I guess; to a lot of people, so ..."

"So your boss gave you the assignment instead of one of the other guys in your office."

"Ya."

"Because it was sort of ... personal, to you."

Arthur shrugged in mild embarrassment. "Maybe."

Curt took a drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, into the crumpled up ticket.

"Well, I'll tell you what," he said, with a small smile, raising his eyes from the ashtray, "in a way, I can relate. And I'm frankly bored as shit, tonite, and it just so happens that I haven't been interviewed in a fucking dog's age, so if you've got no better prospects, you can always interview _me_ , if ya want. I mean, I won't be able to tell you much about Slade, either, but you can always _try_."

Arthur plugged in his machine.

* * *

Right there in the bar - it was all caught on tape - Curt and Arthur began their relationship. In a word, they simply _clicked._ There was certainly an unmistakable, almost palpable energy between them; Arthur felt it the moment he had walked in the room. The mutual attraction had already been established, years before, and apparently hadn't wavered, though neither man admitted at the time that he recalled the other from the rooftop a decade before.

* * *

True to his word, Curt was cagey, telling Arthur almost nothing he didn't already know about the mysterious disappearance of Brian Slade, but dropping enough hints and suggestion to keep it interesting.

Still, Arthur wasn't exactly complaining. _Wait til I fucking tell Stef,_ he thought. I mean, not only had he stumbled out of the sheer bloody blue upon Curt fucking _Wild_ , but the man had proceeded to ask him, almost immediately, for an interview!

Still, _this is for work_ , he reminded himself. Research for the assignment he'd been charged with. He was a fan, yes, but he was also a professional.

He told himself these things, but as the interview continued, and became less interview than free flowing, animated discussion, it was difficult for Arthur to remain the detached reporter. He was enjoying himself, and was pleased to say he was enjoying Curt Wild's company, far too much. On two levels. First, as is well known, almost a cliche, meeting your idols is risky - they so often turn out to be egotistical arseholes. Curt certainly had the reputation as a grumpy curmudgeon who would sooner bite your head off than talk to you. And yet here he was, refreshingly unpretentious, funny, engaging; a natural raconteur.

As well as very easy, still, on Arthur's eyes.

The second reason he was enjoying this was more personal: here was his teenaged idol freely telling him inside stories about a period that was positively magical to him, critical, even, to his coming into his own and accepting himself. Let alone hearing of an era, a time, which so damned _glamourous_.

Curt didn't much see it that way, however. He described it in fact as "life in the crazy house, the super schizoid glam rock bubble", telling him, essentially, that it was, at once, suffocating and intoxicating, electrifying and withering. "No wonder I went back on smack," he joked.

The discussion started with the rise of the glam thing and life under the world's microscope, (and under the management of Jerry Devine), and spread to non-glam topics such as the current punk scene (both being very much in favor), London's alternative art and fashion scenes; the increasing dearth of good, cheap restaurants in the city and the ever rising cost of tube fare; their favorite London music venues, (for Curt, The Roundhouse -"fucking _Doors_ played there!"); as well as Curt's childhood in Detroit, and his early bands. At some point the conversation circled back to glam: touring the States and Europe as Slade's opening act, the terror and pressure of playing before 25,000 instead of the 200 he and his band had been used to; the highly scripted, tightly controlled, stultifying _machine_ that soon surrounded them - what Curt came to think of as _"the 72 ring fucking circus."_

Though not one without it's perks: private planes, first class hotels and 5 star restaurants as a matter of course; and then there were things like the honor - and terror - of meeting people like Lou Reed, as well as the surrealness of hanging backstage with the likes of Salvador Dali and Andy Warhol, and at another time, Ringo Star - an actual Beatle!

Finally, after a half dozen or so more tales, Curt came to Brian: Their first meeting at the legendary Max's Kansas City in New York, and what was immediately, glaringly obvious to Curt, to everyone: his extraordinary star quality, charisma, and sex appeal, and that cunning mind. Curt didn't say a whole lot about Brian, certainly going nowhere near their brief, apparently intense and highly volatile affair, not that Arthur would have expected him to, but it was still pretty damn thrilling to sit across a small table and hear - and see - Curt Wild talk about Brian Slade.

It was subtle, but as he did, it seemed to Arthur that his eyes, his whole demeanor, changed, seeming to betray several things at once: bitterness, admiration, resignation, awe. It occurred to Arthur that, despite their painful, largely public breakup, Curt Wild was still, in a sense, transfixed.

* * *

By the end of the interview, which stretched well past the second hour, Arthur was completely elated and blown away, but frankly exhausted.

Curt stood, and gathered his wallet and cigarettes. "Well. _That_ enough material for ya?"

"Yes," Arthur smiled, taking a deep breath. "Definitely. Thank you so much."

"It's cool, man," Curt continued, "Always good to exercise a few of the old glam rock demons, y'know? Especially without spilling too many Slade beans, so his goons can't exactly hassle me," he said, grinning." And no," he laughed, pointing to the tape recorder, "you _can't_ print that."

Arthur laughed. "I won't. Thank you, again, really. It was a total pleasure."

Curt smiled, and looked at him a beat.

"Likewise."

* * *

Curt patted his jacket pocket looking for his smokes, which is when Arthur noticed it - the bright green pin. "It supposedly belonged to Oscar Wilde," Curt explained, and tried to give it to Arthur, "for your image", but he refused.

Curt upended his beer, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, shook Arthur's, and then walked out the door, undoubtedly, Arthur figured, to head home to his lover - male, female, or perhaps both.

* * *

Arthur remained behind, reviewing his scribbled notes and buzzing head to toe over the evening's extraordinary turn of events. He felt good about it, of course, stunned, in truth, if a little wistful. What had happened ten years ago, and all of the pining and upheaval it had elicited in a young Arthur, had just come completely full circle in a single evening, tidily wrapped up in a neat, grown up bow.

What a shame, he thought.

* * *

Arthur finished off his beer, closed his notebook, shut down his tape recorder, and left.

There, a few feet down the sidewalk, puffing away, in a cloud of smoke, stood Curt.

Arthur, having precious little experience with men, for someone his age, and even less apparent ability to read them, was startled, and unsure what, if anything, this meant. Still, it was his chance, maybe, or perhaps an opening, at least, if this did, in fact, mean anything.

"You, I don't know, hungry?" Arthur blurted, stumblingly, having no idea in the world how you ask Curt Wild out on a date.

Curt, mid-drag, eyes locked on Arthur, slowly blew out the smoke, and said, with obvious intent, simply, _"ya."_

* * *

They had sex, twice, a block away, on Curt's bare, bony, twin mattress which sat on the floor of his tiny, grimy apartment. The first was rough, quick, and seconds in the door; exactly what the hours of pent up energy called for. The latter, slower, more intense, better.

Curt discovered right away that he liked how Arthur smelled.

Arthur, in a fog of disbelief that this, any of this, had even happened, could find no single thing he liked more than any other. It all felt like something out of the supernatural. A glowing meteor bursting across the sky, landing in his lap.

* * *

Following their first tryst, the men got up, dressed, and said their sleepy goodbyes. Arthur was so spent, yet so sky high, he could scarcely see straight, and struggled to contain himself, to not blurt or gush like a teenager.

He was relieved, too that the final moments before he was to leave were not awkward or hurried, as they had been the few times he had previously hooked up with men he'd met at bars. The conversation, in fact, even resumed, despite the fact that it was 3am, to the point where they each finally sat back down on the mattress, seeing as it was Curt's only piece of furniture. They discussed travel, and continued their discussion of London. Curt remarked that he had been here 6 years, yet still felt like an outsider.

Suddenly, the conversation turned to the rooftop.

"We've met before, right?" Curt asked, "fucked before? Like, way long ago?"

Arthur, not really sure he wanted to let on, or what impact it may have on the whole evening, hesitated ... and the pause betrayed him.

"Fuck," Curt laughed. " _Knew_ it. You seemed familiar, and you have a really beautiful back - it's a thing with me. I wonder if I somehow remembered it."

Arthur about fell over.

There was then a loaded, energy filled pause as the two men considered each other.

"Let me see it again?" Curt asked, bringing his face close, and with a nod from Arthur, helping him out of his shirt ... and trousers.

"One for the road," Curt whispered as he turned him to face the mattress.

* * *

Curt both wanted Arthur to stay over, and didn't, because this had been pretty perfect as it stood, and what if they hated each other in the morning? Alas, the two could not actually fit on the single small mattress, enough to sleep, anyway, and seeing as he had no other furniture to offer Arthur, he ended up walking him out of the building and several blocks to the nearest all night bus stop, Arthur pretending not to know his way around this part of the city, and Curt pretending to believe him.

They stood there a minute, awkwardly, on the sidewalk, before their quick kiss.

Curt turned to head back, finding himself unable to conjure up a valid excuse for waiting with Arthur til the bus arrived, that didn't make him sound iike a psycho or a stalker.

* * *

Arthur scarcely survived the bus ride home, and, despite his exhaustion, sprinted up the stairs to his flat, three at a time.

 _"Stef!"_ Arthur shouted into the phone when he arrived.

 _"What?"_ She croaked. _"What the hell time is it?"_

"4:30-"

"-Jesus Christ, what's happened? Are you alright? Did something happen?"

" _No_. _Yes_. I'm _fine_. I'm _more_ than fine. Listen to me! Something just fucking ... _otherworldly_ happened to me tonite! You will _never believe it in a million years!_ _I_ still don't believe it!"

 _"What?_ What _is_ it? Are you hurt? Were you _arrested_ or something?"

"No, I wasn't bloody arrested," he snapped, then took a deep breath and said it.

 _"I just had sex with Curt Wild."_

There was a pause, after which, Stephanie groaned.

"Fuck's _sake_. Take you dick outta your hands and go to sleep. Are you _seriously_ calling me in the middle of a _wank?"_

"I am _not kidding,_ Stef! _I met Curt Wild_ tonite! I went to that bar to interview the owner, remember? The guy who knew Brian? And Curt was there! And he agreed - fuck - he _asked_ to be interviewed, and we talked for like two and a half hours! And then he took me home and fucked me! _Twice! I_ _just got back!"_

There was a pause, after which she said, in a calm voice, "Are you _sure_ you're not actually fucking with me, Arthur?"

"Christ! Do I _sound_ like I am? I'm jumping out of my bloody _skin,_ here! The most incredible night of my entire _life_! He was _amazing!_ And he _looked_ amazing, and he told me a million stories about back then and we talked about all kinds of other shit besides - London and him growing up in America and touring with Brian and it was just ... aaaggghhhhh! We _totally_ got on from the first second! And then we fucked really hard and really slow in his flat! _I can't believe I'm even saying this!_ He said I have a beautiful back!"

"You _do_ have a beautiful back. You never believe me when i tell you how gorgeous you are."

" _Fuck_ how gorgeous I am! _I just had sex with Curt Wild!"_

"Okay," she laughed softly. "Calm down, darling; you're yelling."

"How the fuck can I calm down?!" he shrieked.

"Arthur. Take it easy or you'll have a bloody coronary. This is amazing. This is _nuts_. I'm _ecstatic_ for you. How long have you been in love with that guy?"

Arthur took a deep breath and laid himself back on the mattress.

"Like, forever. I'm telling you, I cannot _believe_ this happened. I will _never_ get past it."

She laughed. "You will. You have to - you've got a piece to write. And who knows? Maybe you'll see him again."

He shook his head. "No. Come on. It was nice, it was amazing, it was a total gift, but I seriously doubt this would lead to ... It was a one off. He's probably slept with loads of reporters.

"Well ... maybe."

"I'm sure as fuck not on his level, regardless."

"On _what_ level? Arthur, Curt Wild hasn't exactly been hip and happening for a very long time."

"He's a bloody _legend_ , Stef."

"He's a pioneer, he _was_ a pioneer, not quite a legend. And you're gorgeous, and a total bloody catch."

"This guy has dated rock stars. _Models_."

"When? When was that? 10, 12 years ago? As I recall he also dated drag queens."

Arthur grinned. "Ya. _'Rachel'"._

"Anyway, why are we bloody arguing? You've just had an absolutely incredible night, for the second time, _with your idol._ How many people can say that?"

Arthur turned his head and grinned into the phone. _"Christ!"_

"You deserve it, my love. I'm _thrilled_ for you. Why shouldn't he sleep with you?"

He laughs. "I can think of about a million reasons."

"Well obviously he doesn't agree. You're lovely. You're beautiful, Arthur. Curt Wild's no dummy."

It hit Arthur all over again.

"Jesus Christ," he shrieked, " _Curt Wild!"_

She laughed. "Okay, now listen to me. _I want you to get some sleep._ Seriously. You have to be at work in a few hours. You can't show up with giant bags under your eyes, drooling and babbling about Curt Wild."

He laughed.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Good, then. _Get some rest,_ right now. We'll have plenty of time to talk about it - I want to hear _everything_. But go to bed, now, Arthur, okay?"

"Okay. I will. G'nite."

* * *

Arthur, of course, _could_ not sleep and _did_ not sleep. He tried. He stood up and began to disrobe, but when removing his jacket, something pinged as it hit the floor. Arthur looked.

It was the green Oscar Wilde pin.

Somehow Curt had tucked it into his coat pocket.

Arthur picked it up, laid back on the bed, and held it tight in his hand.

* * *

At his desk at work, early that same afternoon, Arthur's boss approached to inquire about the prior evening's research.

"How did it go?"

"Um," Arthur stammered. "Good. Better than expected."

"So you got some leads on Slade?"

"Um, well, no. None. People are very tight lipped."

"Okay," his boss said, sounding confused. "so ...?"

Just then Arthur's phone rang. He picked it up, holding out his index finger to his boss, to stand by a minute.

"Arthur Stuart," he said into the phone in a professional voice.

"Arthur Stuart, this is Curt Wild."

Arthur shot up out of his seat, almost ripping out the phone cord. He then frantically pointed to the receiver to signify to his boss that he had to take the call.

His boss walked off.

Arthur turned around in place, facing away from his nearest coworker, slouched himself forward, and cupped his hand over the phone.

 _"Wow. Hi,"_ he said, shakily.

"Hi. I hope it isn't a problem, calling you at work."

"No, no," Arthur said too quickly. "It's fine."

"I got the number from the bar owner. Anyway, I know you probably can't talk, but I just wanted to make sure you made it back okay. I live in a shithole neighborhood and I wouldn't want it on my conscience if a reporter got mugged on his way home from my shithole flat."

Arthur's mind kept flip flopping. Curt was just being cordial. Of course. Like anyone would. Though no interview subject had ever before followed up the next day to see how he was.

But then, Arthur had never before fucked an interview subject.

"No," he said, watching his coworkers to see if anyone was listening. "It was fine. Totally fine. Got back just fine."

Curt laughed. "Okay. I'm glad it was 'fine'. I had a 'fine' time hanging out last night, and in fact I was wondering if you maybe might want to do it again. Sometime. Only without the tape recorder."

Arthur straightened up, dropped his cupped hand from the phone, and froze.

No one could accuse Arthur, in any way, shape or form, of being in his right mind that day, but he knew without any possible doubt, in the entire world, what had just happened.

Curt Wild had asked him out on a date.

* * *

 _"Jesus Christ,"_ said Stephanie when she heard. "He must really like you."

"I guess." He shrugged, smiling ear to ear. "Maybe."

"Well one thing's for sure. You're gonna have to put out. Front row tickets to your favorite singer _at a private teeny tiny show at your favorite club in town?_ Um, ya."

Arthur's face soured.

"What is this, _1952?_ We're not frigging straight people! We don't follow old, outdated straight people rules! We're two horny men, and trust me; Curt Wild doesn't have to do _anything_ to get me to fuck him!"

"Alright, alright. I was just sayin' ..."

"Well don't."

"Okay, whatever. I'll shut up."

Pause.

"But," she said under her breath, "you _are_ gonna have to put out."

He sighed in exasperation and looked at his best friend.

A small, mischievous smile formed at the corners of her mouth.

Arthur tried to stop it, but a smile crept across his own face, as well.

 _"You say that like it's a bad thing."_

* * *

Two days later Curt and Arthur met for pizza at a place across the road from Arthur's favorite bar. Curt wanted an excuse to see Arthur again, and so, because he knew the head bouncer and one of the bartenders, had scored them tickets to a private club show at the bar - a pre-album screening thing by an artist Arthur had mentioned as his absolute favorite, but whom he had never been able to see - Tom Waits. Arthur hadn't even known that Waits was playing in town, because the gig was, again, private, and so not advertised. It was something musicians did sometimes - try their new stuff out on a crowd of a hundred or so friends and fellow musicians. Waits was most of the way through recording an album, and felt he needed the feedback and a bit of airing out of his stuff, hence the gig.

* * *

Leading up to their date, Curt and Arthur were both nervous, and in fact Arthur had thrown up. _"I'm so below him,"_ he thought. _"He'll see right away how straight and un-cool I am and he'll be embarrassed to be with me."_

Curt meanwhile experienced his usual positive, life affirming inner dialogue: _"He's young and normal and baggage-free and on the rise. He'll figure out quickly what a low down dirtbag I am and be mortified to be with me."_

* * *

Over pizza and beer, however, the energy they had felt in each other's presence was there again, immediately and in droves, and the two picked up where they had left off - the conversation flowing pretty much from the get go. They discussed their beer and pizza preferences and Curt told him what it was like to eat pizza, and spaghetti, and also beer, for the first time in the countries that had invented them - Italy and Germany. He then privately admonished himself for sounding like a show off. _("Okay, quit with the world-travelled shit, asshole.")_

They talked about various shows they had been to at the same bar, and other venues in town, and about the very first concerts they had been to as teenagers, their favorite bands and singers, and childhood celebrity crushes they had each had.

Arthur omitted any mention of a certain crush, if not obsession, he had had, and still did, on a certain glam rock singer.

* * *

When it was time, they filed into the bar, and Curt was immediately greeted by the bouncer and a guy in Waits' band that he knew, and the three stopped to chat. Arthur stood by feeling very out of place. _"This is so 'inside'",_ he thought to himself. _"Hip people, industry people. I so don't fit."_

"This is my friend, Arthur," Curt said to the two men. "He's a big fan of Tom's."

"Oh, well you're gonna love this, then," the guy in Waits' band said to him. "And y'know, feel free to come by afterwards and tell him what you think. That's actually why he's doing this."

Arthur nearly choked. "Oh. Oh. I don't know," he stammered, looking at Curt. "Maybe."

Curt was torn. He really liked Arthur and wanted to do something special for him, but maybe the private gig and the meeting the act thing was too show-boaty. Arthur was nothing if not painfully shy and reserved, and plus, they'd just frigging met. Maybe it was a turnoff, maybe it was sad, a sign of desperation, Curt seeming to feel the need to pull out all the stops to try to impress him.

* * *

The place filled in, and Curt and Arthur took their seats down front. Waits came out to the cheers and whistles of the small crowd. He was about 5 feet directly in front of them, which Arthur found a tad unnerving.

Who was he kidding?, he thought to himself. He was sitting here with _Curt Wild_. _That_ was the thing to be unnerved about!

Waits raised his glass, bowed in exaggerated fashion, and then peered into the faces before him, giving a nod to various people that he apparently knew, including Curt.

Arthur, once again, felt desperately square and out of place. He was a plebeian, a total commoner, amongst the super hip, super talented patricians.

* * *

The show proceeded, and Waits was especially boozy and scratchy-voiced and brilliant and told long, funny stories in between songs. Arthur wished he had his camera, and his tape recorder.

It was thrilling, but still strange for him as he had never before been to a gig where he knew the artist by heart, yet not one of the songs being performed. It was an incredible opportunity to hear songs by your favorite artist _that were still under construction,_ though, and he found himself leaning forward and sitting literally on the edge of his seat.

At the close of the show, following his second encore, as Waits walked off, Curt looked at Arthur.

"So, do you wanna see if we can go back stage? I mean, it's not a big deal, if you don't want to, but it might be kinda cool."

Arthur said no, but thank you. He was too intimidated by the brilliant show he had just seen, brilliant even though the songs were largely unfinished, and was fearful of making an arse of himself in front of Tom Waits.

He also frankly didn't want to wait any longer to get into Curt Wild's trousers.

* * *

At Curt's flat, Arthur barely had time to notice that the place had been tidied up, and that Curt had put a fitted sheet over the previously bare mattress, before they were fucking on it. Their sex mirrored that of the session days before - an urgent and quick affair seconds in the door, followed by a slower, more intense and for Arthur more satisfying session a bit afterwards, with long, sleepy conversation in between.

"You really do have a beautiful back," Curt wheezed, kissing it, moments after coming. "And an absolutely incredible ass."

Arthur laughed into the pillow through his own wheezes, brain impossibly screwed up, thoroughly incapable of processing the notion that Curt Wild, among the very hottest men that had ever existed, somehow found _him_ sexy.

* * *

Curt pulled himself to lay astride Arthur on the small mattress. They had now had sex twice and by rights, Curt should be fast asleep. It was that enzyme the body released immediately after male orgasm that made sleep virtually impossible to put off, but Curt was fighting it. He also by rights should not be horny - he'd come _twice_ \- and he wasn't exactly 15 anymore - yet somehow was.

He couldn't help himself. He found everything about Arthur, from his English accent, to the quiet way he carried himself, to his scent; to that thick, clean, dark head of hair and broad smooth back; not to mention perfect cock and backside; impossibly attractive. Was it any wonder he was ready for another go?

Arthur reached low between them, and Curt placed a hand over his and guided it along his erection. It didn't take long.

Curt realized too late that it was so much more intimate, being face to face with Arthur, than anything they'd done previous.

It struck Arthur in the same way. He'd imagined himself in such scenarios hundreds of times, but nothing could prepare him for looking directly into Curt Wild's eyes, into his face, just inches from his own, as Arthur stroked him to orgasm.

* * *

Curt woke up shortly thereafter to find Arthur getting dressed. Arthur pointed with his thumb towards the door, and spoke softly.

"Gotta go. Have be at work in a few hours."

Curt got up quickly. "Okay. Should I walk you to the bus stop?"

"No. S'fine. I called myself a cab."

"Okay."

They kissed at the door.

"Can't thank you enough for the show tonite."

"I think you just thanked me plenty," Curt joked.

Arthur smiled and kissed him again, and pointed to the kitchen counter.

"I left my number."

* * *

Curt watched at the window as Arthur slowly paced back and forth on the sidewalk, waiting for the taxi. He wondered what was going through Arthur's mind, and if it was anything like what was going through his own.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day - actually that same day - Arthur was rapidly getting used to arriving home at 4 in the morning - was Thursday, and Arthur once again got zero sleep. He simply could not go from _having sex with Curt Wild,_ to enjoying a normal night's slumber, as if he'd just come back from the grocery store. It was all still too extraordinarily unreal. He laid awake, eyes wide, staring, until his alarm went off at 7.

Arthur was groggy at work, but still energized, and half hoped Curt would call him at his desk, even though he now had his home number.

Curt didn't.

Following work, Arthur raced home and found no message on his answering machine. It wasn't a big deal, he told himself. After all, if Curt called him every day, it might be a bit much.

He stopped dead, and spoke out loud inside his empty flat: _"Did you actually just fucking seriously say to yourself, 'if Curt called me every day ...'"?_

His life was officially insane. There was no way around it.

* * *

He and Stephanie talked on the phone, and, as had always been their wont, he told her every detail of his latest sexual encounter. Stephanie, as a committed fag hag, had a thing about gay sex. _"It simply does not get any hotter,"_ she would say. And because, she would complain, "no other poofs I know will _spill,"_ she had to satisfy her proclivity with tales of Arthur's escapades

None of this was to say that Arthur had had very many escapades _to_ spill. He had had, in fact, just two brief affairs. One was with an older married businessman with grown kids. That was when he was 20. The guy would tell his wife the oldest lie in the book, that he had to 'stay late for work', and instead be fucking Arthur at a private flat he kept in the city, just for such occasions. Arthur did it in part for the gifts and the nice dinners. Not to say that he had no feelings for the man; he felt general fondness, though not much respect for the cheating (nor himself for being a participant), but figured it was a relatively safe and easy way to gain sexual experience.

In the small, conservative town where he still lived at the time, Arthur had limited options. He felt uncomfortable at the few hush hush underground gay hangouts that he was aware of, those places being rather seedy and sad, and after trying it a few times, stayed away from the cruise-y park. It didn't help that Arthur seemed always to draw attention from creepy older men, in no small part, he was sure, because even at 20, he looked 15.

Everything to do with gay-ness then was still completely under the table and hidden almost entirely inside of a doubly locked closet. You still pretty much could tell no one who you really were, nor would many take the chance of revealing themselves to you. Too bloody risky. There had been a couple of gay bashings, as well, outside of one place that Arthur had visited. Thereafter, he didn't return.

By the time he was 24, Arthur had moved to London, where there was an actual, though still somewhat limited, gay scene. Through friends, Arthur met, and fell hard for a boy his own age; a blonde, blue eyed actor. It was a very intense few months, on many levels, and Arthur learned the art of oral sex, but it turned out the actor's love of drama carried over far too much into real life, and the histrionics, possessiveness and threats of suicide grew exhausting. Arthur broke it off.

Aside from the occasional random anonymous hookup, this was the extent of Arthur's sexual history.

* * *

Following his telephone call to Stephanie, Arthur ate a small meal by himself, reviewed a byline for work, and retired early. To his surprise, seeing as he'd had no sleep for nearly two days, he laid awake. Sleep would not come.

It was, in part, because of his penis.

Arthur reached for himself, and, for the millionth time in his life, thought of Curt Wild. Except this time, what was playing in his head was a full color replay of actual events.

* * *

The next day at work Arthur secretly hoped each time the phone rang that it was Curt. As a good luck charm, Arthur had even put the Oscar Wilde pin in his jacket lapel, which was immediately noticed by his coworkers. As gay men go, Arthur was the opposite of flamboyant and fashionable. He wasn't trying to hide anything. He just didn't get that particular gay gene that tended towards more feminine, swishy sensibilities. Hence the pin drew attention and questions. He told them it was a friend's.

Regardless, as good luck charms go, the pin was a dud. Curt didn't call.

To keep his mind off things, Arthur threw himself into his tasks, and caught up on a number of writing and research projects, which helped the day pass.

Once again, he raced home. This time, as he charged through the doorway and whipped his head to the left towards his answering machine, there was a flashing red light. He flew towards it.

"Hey, it's Curt." _Oh thank god,_ Arthur bellowed. "Was wondering if you were doing anything this weekend, and if you maybe might wanna hang out, or whatever."

 _Christ YES!,_ Arthur shrieked into the air. Curt then read out his phone number. Arthur wrote it down on a piece of paper. Then wrote it down on another piece of paper, lest he lose the first, and stared at them both.

Mother of god, he thought. _This is_ _Curt Wild's phone number._ Had someone told him, at any time prior, that he would one day be in possession of such a thing, he would have thought them mad.

* * *

Arthur forced himself not to call right away. He wanted to sound calm. He didn't want to reveal himself for the silly, giddy thing he was becoming. The feelings were entirely understandable, but they were also entirely unlike Arthur. He was, in fact, very well known among friends and coworkers for his even temper and stoic demeanor, traits that gave him an advantage as a reporter, but were less desirable in a lover. At least according to the actor boyfriend.

Regardless, he just didn't want to make an arse of himself into Curt Wild's answering machine. _"Cool, and reserved,"_ he thought. _"Meaning you don't call right away."_

He determined that one hour's wait would be plenty, and set his kitchen timer for 7.

He and Stephanie had agreed on previous occasions that, generally speaking, 7 o'clock, for calling a bloke you fancy, was best. Not so early in the evening that you assume he doesn't work, or that you interrupt his dinner, or his favorite show on telly, nor so late that he think ill of you for calling at that hour.

Of course, a watched pot never boils, and Arthur didn't help matters by standing before the clock, arms crossed, staring.

He reached for a magazine, then a copy of his own daily newspaper, but could find no single article that interested him.

He took out a deck of cards and played solitaire on the kitchen counter, and went through the deck what felt like 14 times before he threw it down again.

Being in the kitchen wasn't helping. Arthur got out his pink rubber gloves from beneath the sink, and scrubbed the shower door, and floor. It needed it anyway.

Finally, there was the loud _ding!_ , and he leapt to his feet.

* * *

He dialed. The phone rang once, twice, a third time, and Arthur cursed under his breath for Curt to _be goddamn home and to pick up already._ His heart sank, as a robotic prerecorded voice began asking him to leave a message. Not anticipating this, and hence, having no carefully thought out message, Arthur quickly hung up. He then sat down at his kitchen table and set about crafting the perfect message, in both word, and tone.

He didn't like the sound of his own voice, believing it to be rather flat and doltish, so figured he would put on a more chipper, upbeat inflection. Not too eager or forward, not too forced, but not exactly a laying about, bored, dullard's voice.

Then there was only to hash out _what_ to say.

Arthur spoke the phrases out loud.

"Hi, Curt. Hope you're well. I have a coupe of things I need to do this weekend, but would love to catch up-"

Arthur stopped himself. _Tosser. You can't sound like Curt Wild wanting to hang with you is some sort of inconvenient disruption._

"Hey Curt ..." Yes. Curt had said 'hey', in his own message. Very plain, casual American-ese. "Hey Curt, it's me, Arthur ..."

Arthur stopped himself again. _He's fucked you four times. I think he knows your stupid name._

"Hey Curt. I'd love to hang out this weekend. Maybe Saturday mid day, if that's okay with you? Give me a call."

 _Perfect_.

* * *

Arthur picked up the phone - it was now nearly 7:30. The answering machine picked up again. No matter. he was prepared with his scripted message and began to read it when the phone clicked, and suddenly Curt was on the line.

"Hey," he said, a bit out of breath.

"Oh," Arthur said, startled. "Hi, er, _hey_."

"Sorry, just got in. How goes it? You wanna hang?"

* * *

"So do I kiss him when we first meet tomorrow?," he said to Stephanie on the phone, as soon as he hung up from Curt. "Like when he approaches, do I walk up to him and kiss him on the mouth?"

"Well, you're not gonna kiss him on the forehead."

"I know that, Stef. Come on, I'm serious. Are he and I at the stage where I greet him with a kiss? I wonder if it's a bit couple-y and presumptuous. We've known each other less an a week."

"And _known_ , and _known,"_ she joked.

"Shut up. Will you answer the question?"

"Why wasn't this a concern last time, with your second date?'"

"Because it wasn't really a second date, it was more a first. The last time I'd seen him was when we met by accident that night; not a date."

"Okay. That's right. I feel like this has been going on for weeks instead of days, it's been so crazy and stressful."

"Stef, I think this has been a bit more stressful for me than for you."

"I know, but _I'm_ not getting sexually compensated for it."

"Shut up. So do I kiss him tomorrow?"

"Why ask me? You never listen anyway, and then you tell me off for applying straight person dating rules to gayboys."

"I do listen! But in this case, I think it's universal, the kissing thing. If you were in my shoes ..."

"If it was me, not having a lot of experience and dating a guy 9 years older who was a top, I guess I'd hold off. Let him make that decision."

"But what if-"

"-Arthur."

"What?"

"You're doing that thing you always do. Stop being a reporter about this, please, researching everything ahead of time."

"That this is a big deal to me, Stef; do I really need to explain that? I don't wanna fuck it up and make some stupid-arse faux pas."

"I know. I just don't think preemptively micromanaging every possible moment is necessary. What difference do you think it will actually make to him if you kiss him or not right when he shows up tomorrow? He obviously likes you. I doubt he'll change his mind because of how you did or didn't greet him."

Arthur shrugged, and thought a moment.

"Okay. But is kissing him first thing too couple-y?"

Stephanie sighed.

"See? You _never_ listen. We're completely back to square one. Yes, I suppose it might be considered a tad couple-y, okay? That's just one straight girl's opinion. But would that be a bad thing? Maybe Curt would be cool with it. Maybe he's looking for a signal-"

Arthur slowly shook his head.

"-I highly doubt it. _He's_ got the total upper hand and all the clout. _He'd_ have to be the one to-"

"-Arthur, my love, you're a _prize_. Curt would be damn lucky to have you as a boyfriend. I don't think he's so stupid he doesn't recognize that. Why do you think he keeps wanting to see you?"

Arthur looked off, thinking.

"I'm not gonna kiss him when he walks up to me tomorrow. Too couple-y. Too presumptuous."

"Fine. Your call. So what will you do if he kisses _you?_ Will that mean he thinks you're a couple?"

* * *

At 10:30 the next morning, Arthur arrived at his downtown office building. He wanted to be there early for their 11am meeting, just in case, Curt was not exactly familiar with the city's financial district and hence might under or over estimate the time it took to get there, and Arthur didn't want to take any chances.

He paced, and then sat on the stoop and watched people as they milled about. Some he recognized as business people like himself going into work on a Saturday; others were simply out to walk dogs or run errands. One thing struck him. Everyone looked bored. Arthur was not bored. He was dead nervous. Yes, this would be his third time seeing Curt, and each time, they got along "famously" as the Americans say, but it was still, all of it, so bizarre and unreal.

He reflected on his previous Saturday - just one week ago - which, as far as he can recall, amounted to sorting and shredding stacks of old bills and receipts, calculating his latest expense reports for work while doing laundry, visiting the hardware store, and ringing up his elderly Aunt Ruth.

Little could he have known or predicted ...

* * *

Arthur waited, and pondered.

It could all come crashing today, he thought; this whole insane few days. It has been really nice - not nice, _incredible_ \- but something could easily happen that could derail the whole thing. Curt could discover something he didn't like about Arthur; maybe some trait or habit or opinion that was a deal breaker for him. After all, it wasn't like they had a lot in common or came from similar backgrounds. And they still barely knew each other, really.

It struck Arthur that one thing he didn't know was how Curt spent his days. He wasn't apparently employed. This could conceivably point to him not needing to work - after all, he had had all that fame and exposure, magazine covers, gossip pages, etc., but it hadn't translated to much in the way of record sales, as far as Arthur recalled, and judging from the size and bare bones condition of Curt's flat, Arthur guessed he was not rich. So what did he do for money? The dole, Arthur figured.

There was also something Arthur didn't care to think about. The drug thing. It was well known that Curt had tried and failed rehab numerous times. Perhaps he was in a good space at the moment. He certainly seemed completely normal and functional and healthy. Perhaps he'd finally beaten it for good.

Or perhaps he was dealing, perhaps that was his 'job'. Perhaps he was about to relapse.

Arthur could only hope it wasn't the case.

* * *

He incessantly checked his watch. 10:15 came and went. 10:18. 10:22. 10:25. 10:27. 10:30. By 10:40 - which marked 40 anxious minutes of waiting on Curt Wild, Arthur was sweating.

Just then, a figure appeared on the horizon - a person of blonde persuasion, with a rather lumbering gait. As the figure grew closer, Arthur could detect leather, and a cloud of smoke.

 _Oh, thank Christ_.

Arthur stood. His stomach pitched with agitation and nerves, and the debate ignited in his head. _So ... do I kiss him, then? Do I walk right up to him and kiss him on the lips?_

As Curt grew closer, Arthur took note of the bored, somewhat grumpy appearing countenance. Perhaps he was in a bad mood; perhaps it didn't agree with him, keeping a businessman's hours, instead of a rock star's. So, no kiss, then.

In an instant though, as Curt spied Arthur, everything changed. His face transformed from bored/neutral/pissy, straight into what Arthur could only describe as a glowing, beaming, grin; akin to a slow moving sunrise.

Arthur's heart nearly stopped.

 _"Hey,"_ Curt said when he arrived. "Sorry I'm late."

"Hi, um, _hey_."

The two stood there a beat, smiling.

"Any trouble finding-?" Arthur began to say, but before he could finish, Curt stepped up, placed a hand momentarily behind Arthur's head, and planted one full and soft on the lips.

Arthur's feet, he could swear, left the ground.

"You look great," Curt said. "Sorry, what were you gonna say?"

"N-nothing," Arthur stammered, still levitating. "I-I don't remember."

* * *

Though he didn't want to admit it, to Curt, the two days had felt like two weeks, which was worrying, because it meant he was doing something really stupid: falling for Arthur. It was way too early in the game for that shit, he told himself. There was no way of knowing if this thing might develop into something, or if it might implode any second, on the spot, and there you are with your tongue hanging out, watching him walk out the door.

He knew that he really, really liked Arthur; totally dug his company and his dry, quiet sense of humor and even the sound of his voice. He knew he felt eerily comfortable with him, pretty much from the first moment, which was not the impact most people tended to have on him.

And, he knew, without any doubt, that he was dying to fuck Arthur again.

It, this last thing, was an especially good sign for Curt, because it meant he was past the smack/methadone cycle, both of which obliterated your sex drive. Someone might think Curt a pig for constantly wanting to jump Arthur's bones. To Curt, it meant he was healthy, and alive.

* * *

What Curt found especially refreshing, as well as deeply sexy, was that Arthur had no idea of his own hotness. Curt had dated, and/or banged, some seriously stunning people, including models. What wore thin with them almost immediately was their sense of entitlement, and their obvious knowledge of, and reliance on, their own beauty. There was no way they _couldn't_ be aware of it, right? They literally owed their careers, and most of the attention they'd had all of their lives to it. And, as far as Curt was concerned, all of the fawning and slobbering and praise warped their personalities.

Same as it did with rock stars.

Arthur, by contrast, was remarkably well balanced and _un_ entitled, certainly devoid of any apparent ego. All while still being hot.

This along with his seeming relative lack of sexual experience, instead of the virtual whores Curt usually found himself with (not that some wouldn't put _him_ in that category), majorly added to his appeal.

It was, all of it, Curt thought, sort of the perfect combo.

* * *

They walked into Arthur's office building. Curt was excited, having never seen the inside of a newspaper headquarters before, but Arthur assured him it was just a dreary office like any other dreary office, and it certainly seemed to be the case.

"You must have a lot of 'sources', right?" Curt asked. "For all the reporting and investigations you do?"

"Yes. There are always people who will only talk to you off the record."

"And you're sworn to secrecy about their identities."

"Yes. If you reveal a source, no one will ever trust you, or your newspaper, again, so you would never do it."

"And if some government official demands that you reveal the source's name, you still won't do it, so you'd have to go to jail?"

Arthur laughed.

"You're making my job sound heroic. All reporters like to imagine themselves as Bob Woodward, but in reality, that stuff only comes up in extremely rare, high level circumstances. I'm nowhere near that level of reporting. Most of us never get there."

"Oh," Curt said. He knew it was stupid, but he still felt a bit deflated. But, he figured, it's the same thing with people's ideas about rock stars. The reality is usually much less glamorous.

* * *

Arthur pulled some documents off the microfiche that he had forgotten to take care of the day before - his whole reason for coming back in today - and filed it into two separate binders at his desk. He then opened up a small, locked drawer, and took out the green pin.

"Thank you, but I really can't accept this if it actually belonged to Oscar Wilde. He's sort of one of my writing heroes."

"Even more reason to keep it."

"No," Arthur said, pinning it back onto Curt's jacket, "I'll just lose it, and then I'll feel guilty. Thank you, though," he said, face in Curt's lapel, suddenly not backing away when he was done.

The two looked at each other, driven by their mutual energy. In another second, had Arthur consented, Curt would have turned him over the desk. As it happened, at that moment, one of Arthur's coworkers appeared.

"Jake," Arthur blurted, quickly stepping back from Curt. "What are you doing here on the weekend?"

"Same as you; catching up. Here's that research you wanted," he said, handing Arthur an inch thick stack of papers, and looking at Curt.

"Just showing my friend around the office," Arthur explained.

"You're Curt Wild," said Jake, dumbly. It was the second time this week someone had said that exact phrase to him.

Curt laughed. "Yup. Afraid so."

"You in town, on tour, like?"

It was part of why he hated the rare times he was recognized these days, because it was a reminder that he in fact had nothing going on - no tour, no interview, no record deal.

"Nope. I'm in London cuz I live here. Several years, now."

"Oh," he said, as his eyes fell to Curt's lapel. "Pin looks familiar."

"Yes," Arthur stammered, "I was just borrowing it."

"Oh," he said flatly, eyes darting between the two men before he walked off.

* * *

Curt and Arthur had sushi down the block, at a place Arthur frequented.

Curt had never had the stuff before, having very much remained the hamburgers-and-beer guy.

"When I heard there was this craze - that people were voluntarily eating _raw fish -_ I was like, _huh?!"_

Still, Curt agreed to give it a try, in no small part because Arthur raved about it so much, and Curt wanted to like what Arthur liked.

It was a warm spring day and so they took an outside table. Arthur ordered for Curt, since Curt didn't really understand the menu, which, the place being the real deal, was mostly in Japanese.

* * *

"So I guess you're closeted at work?" Curt said.

Arthur sighed.

"Yes, except for one person, I am." He shrugged. "It sucks. Maybe some day it won't matter, but I know that's not the case at present, so ..."

"Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. For your career, and your general survival."

"Even if you feel like a bloody coward."

"Well, you shouldn't. It's not your fault the world is the way it is. Who knew after the 70's that the whole world would go hard right conservative asshole?"

"I know. It was certainly one of the things I drew huge strength from when I was growing up - the fact that people like you were so open about it."

* * *

Curt felt like he could not remember a time when people - complete strangers - _didn't_ know he wasn't straight. Which was just so weird, because it was a private thing, your sexuality right? As in, nobody's goddamn business who you fucked or fancied, yet especially at the height of the glam thing, people on the street, people in shops, friends and distant relatives he hadn't seen since childhood who came out of the woodwork, and certainly reporters - especially reporters - all felt perfectly comfortable quizzing him about it.

He remembered one guy - a reporter from his hometown paper in Detroit, of all places - asking him with a straight face approximately how many blow jobs he'd given. The guy did not actually appear to be kidding - he was older and square, and had apparently been told that these were normal questions for the glam rock crowd. Curt, therefore, could not resist playing along.

"What, you mean on this tour? Or like, today?"

The man seemed flustered to have to ponder his own question. It was clearly a topic he found disgusting.

"No, just ... either," he said, quickly, looking down at his notebook.

"Oh", Curt said, pretending to think. "I'd say about 72 so far on the tour, plus 3 today. Maybe 4 - if you'll let me."

* * *

He knew it was part of the deal - he and Brian singlehandedly glamorizing and popularizing, in fact, pretty much _inventing_ the whole 'bisexual chic' thing. But, as with everything else from that period in his life, it quickly grew tired, and old.

In comparing their two situations, his and Arthur's, he wondered which was preferable: the whole world _not_ knowing the truth, as in Arthur's case, or the whole world knowing it, as in his.

* * *

When the food arrived, the small rolled up bits wrapped in white rice did not look terribly appetizing to Curt. And as Arthur snapped off his chopsticks and dug right in, whilst Curt had to use a fork, he felt like an uncultured schlub.

But, he was immediately pleased to learn, he liked sushi. In fact, he loved it. Sushi was fucking delicious, particularly the pieces with raw salmon and avocado, drizzled in soy sauce. He quickly cleared his plate, and tried - and loved - one piece from Arthur's odd looking "volcano roll", as well.

* * *

During their meal, the conversation flowed just as effortlessly as it always seemed to, but turned more personal - the two discussing for the first time their prior relationships, though Curt (of course) steered clear of any mention of Brian Slade; as well as much more about their childhoods and families, with Curt making only a brief mention of his brother. Arthur felt awkward that he already knew so many of the private and painful facts of Curt's life - the molestation, the mental institution, the drugs and rehabs, the largely public breakup with Slade. As a fan reading the music press at the time, he couldn't have known how much it was at Slade's, and also Jerry Devine's direction that Curt's background be exposed and exploited as much as possible, to help boost sales ... no matter how much it ultimately helped to demolish Curt's reputation, and for the most part, his career.

In his professional endeavors, as a direct result of this, Arthur had made it a point never lower himself to such depths.

* * *

After lunch, Curt walked with Arthur to the bicycle shop a few blocks over, where Arthur picked up his ten speed, which had needed new tires. They intended to drop the bike off in the basement of Arthur's building, then go to the Saturday market, followed maybe by a stroll along the river, but Arthur really wanted to test out the bike. By the time they'd reached his building, which Curt was slightly daunted to see was one of the newer, fancier high rises in town, Arthur had convinced Curt to come for a ride with him, using the spare bike he kept for Stephanie.

As Curt had not been on a bike since he was 8, he protested. He was sure he would look ridiculous, fall off, or somehow break the bike.

"No, you won't. You'll love it. Seriously; if you haven't ridden in all those years, you forget how enjoyable it is. Wind through your hair, all that stuff. I know. I didn't start again until last year. Now it's mostly how I get around the city because the Tube's so unpredictable and I can't be late for interviews. Plus it's so gorgeous out today."

Against this assault of positivity, Curt was defenseless, and so, onto the bike he hopped, or rather, gingerly climbed. At least it wasn't a fancy bike. Just an older scratched up banger that had seen a few miles.

"That way if it gets stolen, it's not a big deal," Arthur explained.

* * *

The two rode around town, and right away Curt was digging it. Arthur was totally right. The wind in the hair thing alone was an unexpectedly pleasant sensation, and riding around just felt really freeing, as well as flat out fun.

They road along the Thames, right across from both the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, both of which Curt had seen numerous times before, but which were somehow exciting and new from atop a bike, side by side with Arthur. They pedaled their way into St James Park and around it's lake, stopping to check out the massive rose garden, and to people watch. Finally they made it over to the outdoor market.

As with the bike riding, the market was so much better than Curt had expected. He couldn't believe what he had missed out on all these years, having stupidly assumed it would be like farmer's markets were in the States - just a collection of vegetables on some tables. He'd completely forgotten that in Europe, outdoor markets were so plentiful and diverse, they were often where people did their whole week's grocery shopping, in addition to being like enormous gourmet food festivals complete with restaurant sized stoves and all manner of amazing smelling items being prepped, seasoned, and cooked before your eyes. This was aside from the usual handmade breads, rolls, pastries, cheeses, muffins, sauces, pies, jams, etc etc. The last time he had seen anything like it had been in the Grenelle neighborhood in Paris, a fantastic non-tourist area immediately adjacent to the Eiffel Tower. That market actually took place underneath the elevated train tracks, which you somehow could barely hear passing overhead as you selected real deal, still warm, genuine French pastries and bread.

He was about to blurt about the Paris market, but in keeping with his desire to refrain from blabbing too much about world travel, he kept his mouth shut.

Of course, it was only to have Arthur one up him, (though he didn't know it,) and tell the story of a market he had eaten at when on assignment in Cairo.

* * *

Arthur bought bread, rice, and some sort of Greek looking hot meal with what looked like chicken kabob/meatballs. Curt was having a hard time choosing, there were so many delicious looking potential meals, but finally settled on a sort of gumbo looking concoction that smelled like the black magic stuff Curt had once had in New Orleans which had been so good, he'd sworn it had made him high.

* * *

Arthur fastened the meals into the his bike's two baskets, and they rode all the way back through the city, past Buckingham Palace this time, over to Arthur's building, where they went in through the basement to store the bikes, and then up the elevator to the 12th floor.

"I'm still getting used to living here," Arthur said as he inserted the key into his door. "It's still pretty new to me."

Inside, Curt was blown back. It was nicer, certainly fancier, than he'd expected, and twice the size. Of course, square footage is one of those things that had become skewered for Curt, seeing as his own place was the approximate size of a broom closet.

"Fuck," Curt exclaimed. "Did you win the lottery?" he said, rubbernecking over the high end fixtures, 12 foot ceilings, balcony, and the expansive view through the enormous windows. "Maybe I should have gone into reporting," he joked.

"I know I should feel guilty about it, but I got a big promotion and a decent raise last year, and I couldn't stand living with flatmates anymore. Just couldn't take it. It costs a good amount of my pay, but to me, it's worth it. At least for the time being."

"I remember flatmates. Not fondly. But shit, why should you feel guilty? You're successful. Why the fuck live in a hovel?"

"I was raised in a strictly religious household. Feeling guilty is part of my DNA," he joked. "Anyway, shall I put that in the fridge?", he said, gesturing to Curt's bag. "Or do you want some now? Are you hungry?"

Right away both men realized the statement echoed the one Arthur had made to Curt outside the club, the night they'd first met.

As they had done that night, Curt's eyes locked on Arthur's.

"Um, I definitely wouldn't say no to some now," he said with a small smile, "if, y'know, you're, like ... hungry, too."

Arthur smiled back shyly. "I haven't even shown you around the place, yet."

Curt could help himself not: _"Maybe start with the bedroom."_

* * *

They started, in fact, in the kitchen, making out up against the cupboards, kissing and fondling each other through their clothing, before Arthur dropped to his knees and brazenly yanked down Curt's zipper.

It was a lifelong dream for Arthur; _the_ featured act in most of his masturbatory fantasies, inspired entirely by the grainy black and white image he had seen long ago, and later the color film, of Brian on his knees on stage, his teeth in Curt's guitar strings. He had longed for it all through adolescence, and then waited through he and Curt's two prior encounters, and had no plans to wait further.

It was spectacularly scary, he found, the responsibility of Curt Wild's cock in your mouth. Still, he dove in, mad with lust and glee. Curt not being freshly washed, being a tad sweaty and musky from the long bike ride, excited him, further. Had Curt Wild's cock smelled like a bouquet of flowers, it just wouldn't have been right.

* * *

Doing this in the middle of the day, in the middle of his brightly lit kitchen, felt terribly, terribly decadent to Arthur, as well. Curt, he was sure, had undoubtedly experienced all manner of perversion and kink in his time, so a blow job in a room that didn't typically see such action probably wasn't a big deal, but it was a start, anyway, Arthur figured.

* * *

Curt hung onto the counter, and watched. Arthur had just the right combo of eagerness, impatience and lust-blinded ambition. Between the visuals and the sensations, it was definitely doing the trick ... so, how to break it to him that he had to stop, and soon, because what Curt wanted more than anything, what he'd been craving for two days, was to fuck the living shit out of Arthur?

Just say it, he figured. It had always been his way.

"Hey."

Arthur, preoccupied, didn't hear him.

 _"Hey,"_ Curt said, running a gentle hand into Arthur's glorious mane.

Arthur stopped, and looked up.

"Sorry. I, uh ... you're getting me so hot, I sorta can't wait ... _"_

* * *

Arthur quickly led them to the bedroom. He had imagined showing off his place, his antiques and artwork, his record collection and books, his framed photos from backpacking trips and travels for work - the whole place to Curt - and had even made the bed - something he never did - but quickly realized he needn't have bothered. With a dollop of lube and some dirty talk - Arthur discovering for the first time that he liked certain American curse words - they were tearing up the bed; Curt slamming away, Arthur shrieking into his fluffed up pillows.

* * *

"I don't know what it is about you," Curt said through gasping pants, afterwards, "but when we're together inside a flat, I sort of need to fuck you within five minutes."

Arthur laughed.

"Yes, I _am_ detecting a pattern, here." He kissed him. " _Not_ that I'm complaining."

* * *

The two, having just climaxed, and each more than a little pooped from their lengthy bike ride, soon were asleep, for the first time, adjacent to one another.

Curt awoke a bit later to an empty bed. He got up, following the sounds to the shower. He stood and watched through the glass door as the soapy suds ran down Arthur's glorious back, and backside. It was miles better than most porn Curt had seen, and had an immediate impact.

He opened the shower door.

Inside, it was Curt's turn to kneel. Having developed a particular penchant for Arthur's ass, however, he decided it was high time he ate it.

Arthur, at Curt's blunt direction, spread himself, and placed both hands flat on the wall ahead. He didn't want Curt to know he had never been rimmed, nor that the very notion made him squeamish. While the former he feared was maybe obvious, the latter unease was immediately abolished.

Arthur found out right away that he liked this thing rimming, that it was maybe the best, albeit, strangest, sensation he'd ever experienced; perhaps his favorite new thing in the world. It certainly made him very hard, very fast, and he gasped, moaned and pled in a whole new, and quite embarrassing way.

Curt found out that being chin-deep in Arthur's smooth, shapely backside - compact, yet curvy, exactly as Curt liked it - let alone the slow, stand up writhing and sensual pleas it was eliciting in Arthur - were making him, too, quickly, very hard.

He took his time, however, savoring it, repeatedly making Arthur's head fling back and his feet stamp, before finally, with an assist from his right hand, making Arthur come.

Poor Arthur shuddered, weak and wheezing into the tiles, hopelessly, if not permanently, fudge-brained.

Curt crept off his knees, cursing whoever had invented porcelain, and, with a single squirt from Arthur's shampoo, proceeded to fuck the living shit out of him.

* * *

In the midst, panting and grunting into Arthur's neck, Curt suddenly spoke.

"Like cock?"

Arthur, being not of sound mind, didn't understand the question, and so didn't respond. By virtue of being a gay man, yes, of course he liked cock. Weren't Arthur's wailings, which echoed and rebounded off every tile, proof enough?

Curt slowed his pace, chewed on Arthur's ear and hissed into it.

"Do you like _cock?"_ he clarified.

 _Oh! Duh! Dirty talk! Again!_

 _"Yes,"_ Arthur panted.

"Hard cock?"

"Yes."

"Reaming your tight, pretty ass?"

 _"Yes,"_ Arthur spat out.

 _"Down your throat?"_

Oh fuck. While Arthur had never actually engaged in 'deep throat', he thought, he very much wished to learn ...

 _Idiot. Curt hasn't decided to interview you, mid-fucking. Again, this is dirty talk! Upping the sexual ante by bringing in some filth!_

 _"Yes, please,"_ Arthur answered, which made Curt chuckle.

"Always so polite," he said, slowing and then rearing back, preparing to slam it home.

"Yes," Arthur said, "I do try to be - _OH! OH!"_

* * *

After he'd come deep in Arthur's body, Curt remained in place, holding him round the waist.

" _Well_ ," he said with panted emphasis. " _That_ was fun."

Arthur laughed wearily. _"Yes."_

"But I think I might be in trouble."

Arthur turned his head.

"Hm? In trouble?"

"Ya. A clinical case of _ass-addiction."_

Arthur leaned further back into Curt's chest and grinned.

"As in," he continued, "I like your ass so much, I can't seem to stay out of it."

* * *

They climbed out and toweled off.

"I'm not trying to embarrass, you," Curt said, "I swear, but, how is it that you don't have a boyfriend?"

Arthur flushed. Answering the question would be to acknowledge what Curt was implying, which was what Stephanie was always telling him: that he was a 'catch'; a 'prize'. What someone might consider themselves lucky to have 'won'.

"Um ...," Arthur was flustered. "I'm really insanely busy with work, honestly, and being closeted doesn't help, and also, I ... I don't know ... I'm just ... really shy. I don't have a lot of confidence with men. People like confidence. They seem mostly attracted to bombast and people who are the life of the party, _outgoing_ , and shit."

Curt looked at him.

"Not everybody."

Curt leaned, and kissed him softly. Arthur was all but spent, but the kiss brought him round again, as did the thing Curt said next.

"I really dig you, Arthur. I don't think that's any secret." He waved his arm in dismissive fashion, in the direction of the living room windows. "People out there, they don't know what they're missing. Bombast. I've been with bombast. It's bullshit, and it wears thin fast."

* * *

Curt pitched off first, within seconds, the all powerful post orgasm sleep-inducing enzyme forcing them into a quick nap, while Arthur mostly drifted in and out.

When awake, Arthur stared at Curt, naked and snoring on his bed, pondering the insanity of his life, and the two most beautiful phrases in the English language:

 _"Not everybody,"_

and

 _"I really dig you."_


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey," Curt said, when he awoke.

"Hey," Arthur responded, next to him, smiling.

"I guess I'm in your bed."

"Yes," Arthur said, smile spreading.

"It's like six times the size of mine, that's how I knew."

"Is it? Not _six_ times, though."

"At least. Plus it's really comfortable."

"It's new. Bought it new when I moved in."

"Ya, and it's up in the air, and not on the floor. Who'd've thought?"

* * *

Curt had a long-postponed smoke out on the balcony while Arthur warmed up their dinners in his new microwave, and poured them some beers. They ate at the table, Curt repeatedly slapping his hand down on it to whoop and shriek over the deliciousness of his English gumbo.

"How have I lived in this city for 6 years and I didn't know about that fucking market!?"

"When I'm in town, I'm there generally every week."

"Well take _me_ next time."

Arthur felt a quiet thrill at the confirmation that Curt intended there to _be_ a next time.

* * *

After dinner, Arthur gave him a formal tour of the place, after which, they sat on the floor for hours, pouring over Arthur's record collection, and playing several songs from it. Curt was impressed that it ranged from obscure 1920's jazz, to 40s Big Band, to Mitch Ryder, Dylan, Beatles, Doors, Velvet Underground and 60's garage and psychedelia, to Lou Reed, Parliament Funkadelic, Berlin-era Bowie, The Clash, Ramones, Television, Talking Heads, Pretenders, Elvis Costello, Patti Smith and the Sex Pistols.

"I met those guys once, cuz they had said in some interview that they dug my stuff. Too bad they were total assholes in person. I met Patti, too. She was really nice."

Arthur's Tom Waits collection was complete, including rare 45s, colored vinyl, and oddball imports.

"I still can't believe I saw him live," Arthur gushed. "He's kind of _it_ for me."

"We should have gone back stage."

Arthur shook his head. "I'm too ... I'd be too tongue tied. It's not my thing, meeting my idols." He caught himself and laughed. " _Usually_ , I mean."

"Oh shit," Curt laughed. "If _I'm_ one of your idols, you're in trouble, my friend."

"Speaking of which," Arthur said, crawling over to the far end of the the third shelf of his records, and pulling out a copy of _Danger Zone._

"If I'd known one day I would be sitting in my living room next to _this_ bloke," he said, pointing to Curt's image on the cover, "I'd have wholly shat myself."

They laughed together, Curt taking the album from him.

"I haven't seen this in a million years! Damn. _Look_ at me! I look _hot!"_

 _"Most definitely,"_ Arthur smiled."Let's just say that cover was _most_ _inspirational_ to me, at 16."

"Ya, I can imagine what it _inspired_ you to do. It's a wonder the album doesn't stick to the wall."

"Disgusting!" Arthur laughed.

"Damn," Curt said, perusing the album, "I'm telling you, I can't believe I was once this hot. I mean, even at the time, I didn't think I was hot. I was just along for the ride, hyping it, glamming myself up. It's only in retrospect, when I see the photos, that I sort of see it."

"Curt, you're still hot."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh shit. Come on. Time and a ton of drugs have taken their toll."

"You look _amazing,_ still. I promise you. Every bit as sexy as the guy on the cover."

"Nah," Curt said, putting the album on the coffee table. "I wish. I fucking wish. I'm old, now."

Arthur, frustrated, crawled over.

"Don't believe me?"

"No," Curt deadpanned.

"You don't think I find you hot?"

Curt squinted.

"I don't know. Maybe it's the power of the early experience. Some residual, leftover shit that's fucking with your eyes."

Arthur screwed up his courage, took Curt's hand, and pulled it towards himself.

"Residual, leftover shit, like _this?"_ he said, guiding Curt's palm along his budding erection.

Their faces came close. Curt half grinned. "We shouldn't've pulled out the old record. I blame the guy on the cover."

"I blame _you,"_ Arthur said.

* * *

They made out on the floor, all messy and hump-y, until Curt pulled Arthur up to sit on the couch.

Curt knelt on the floor before him, locked eyes, and without looking, undid Arthur's trousers.

"Been picturing this for _days,"_ he said, yanking aside the material, and dipping his head.

Arthur's brain rotated inside his skull.

 _Picturing?! ... this?! ... for?! ... days?!_

He had spent a lifetime masturbating to thoughts of Curt Wild ... only to have the man tell him to his face ... _that the tables had been turned?_

How could it actually _be?_

As if the concept wasn't mind splitting enough, as if his whole entire _life_ hadn't just reached truly _insane_ levels of full circle surrealness, there on the coffee table, beyond Curt's shoulder, was his mirror image: the moist, parted lips; the long, messy blonde hair; the wanton, languid, breathtakingly sensual posture ...

Arthur shut his eyes. It was too much. For a moment he actually tried to pretend it was someone else in his lap.

It didn't work.

Curt's mouth was strong, soft, and very, very wet. His tongue snaked round and lapped and pulled at Arthur in ways that seemed impossible, in ways he didn't know a tongue ... or lips ... or a throat could. Curt was clearly so skilled at oral - Arthur immediately recognizing it as his first ever real blowjob - that it embarrassed Arthur to think of his own amateur attempts, earlier. No wonder Curt had wanted him to stop.

At one point Curt raised a hand and let a finger dangle over Arthur's lips, which was new to Arthur, and just so fucking sexy. He eagerly pulled it in, and in fact had to stop himself from shoving Curt's whole hand into his mouth. It was a _need_ that Curt was creating in him. He'd never felt it before on this level, the desire to consume, to positively _inhale_ another person.

* * *

Seconds before Arthur came, Curt planted his palm in the middle of Arthur's chest. It was a way to connect, as well as to gauge the intensity of orgasm, which in this case turned out to be so strong that the writer in Arthur later tried to come up with a new term for it. Adjectives such as 'explosive' or 'earth shattering' were too timid and cliché for what it had actually felt like. Seeing as it was an American who was causing the orgasm in him (of course, 'causing' also felt too timid - it was more being _forced_ or _pulled_ or _ripped_ from him), he settled on a more American-sounding _screaming plutonium gunshot,_ or _SPG_ as they both came to call it.

Curt did not pull off once it was all over. (Had he been timid in this area, it would have killed many of Arthur's teenaged dreams.) Arthur had done this once or twice before, himself, but didn't much like it. Curt, by contrast, clearly reveled in it, and came up smiling, rising to meet Arthur's mouth for a quite happy, thoroughly elated kiss.

"Could totally feel your heart in your chest. Thought you were gonna have a coronary."

"I might ... still," Arthur gasped. "Just ... give me ... time."

"Nope," Curt said, urgently rearranging Arthur's body on the couch. _"You've got an ass that needs fucking,"_ he said, leaning forward with his body weight until Arthur's knees reached his ears.

Arthur's eyes bulged. He was seconds past the blow job - it would likely take him _weeks_ to get past the blow job - and his bum was still sore from before. Couldn't Curt wait?

Curt's eyes darted around in impatience. _"Lube?"_

"Um ... bedroom; night table," Arthur blurted.

He leapt off, and returned moments later, standing before Arthur, naked, grinning that demonically sensual grin, oiling himself up _._

 _'Couldn't Curt wait?'_ Arthur thought. Are you _mad?_

 _"I love your hole",_ Curt said, climbing aboard.

Oh shit, Arthur thought. _Why is spoken filth so hot?_ Words that, outside the bedroom, would normally turn his English-major stomach.

Another thought occurred to Arthur: _Holy shit. Curt Wild loves something about me._

"I'm old, though," Curt continued, leaning to kiss Arthur and whisper in his face. "Three times in a day," he chuckled, "more than I've done a long while, so I'm gonna take it easy, if that's okay."

"Yes", Arthur said weakly.

* * *

Curt's idea of 'taking it easy' was to slowly mash and rock his lube-sodden member directly into Arthur's as he muttered non English-major approved phrases such as _"I'm gonna fuck you hard and slow,"_ and _"your dick is perfect; maybe I'll eat it again, later_ _."_

Arthur didn't think it was possible, considering the degree to which his poor, withered cock had just been mauled - he was sure it would be out of commission for weeks - yet as Curt continued his rock and thrust, asking what it felt like, asking him the things that turned him on - the flesh sprang to life between them.

"Ohhhh," Curt said, leaning upright and grinning. "Will you look at _that_. Thing of beauty if I ever saw one."

"I suppose," Arthur offered, "it must mean I'm gay."

 _"Yes,"_ Curt laughed. "I _suppose_ it must," he said, positioning himself. "And now," he said, carefully plunging two fingers, then himself, inward, the two men moaning from the pleasurable sensation, "we're gonna _prove_ it."

* * *

Curt remained upright, with one arm along the back of the couch, and as promised, rocked his hips slowly, low slung eyes full bore on Arthur.

Which made Arthur terribly self conscious. It was their first time doing it face to face, after all, and as the 'fuck-ee', Arthur would be doing most of the vocalizing and coronary-like behavior, and this time it was ... _with Curt Wild watching._

To make matters worse, Curt reached for Arthur's right hand and brought it down between them.

"It would really excite me," he said, "to watch you beat off while we fuck."

Gulp. Oh shit. As much as he wanted to please Curt in bed, and he very badly wanted to please Curt in bed, it wasn't something Arthur thought he could do. In some ways he had never gotten past his father walking in on him that time, when, ironically, he had been masturbating to Curt's picture.

Arthur tried to make a joke.

"Only if you shut your eyes."

But Curt picked up on it right away. "That might be _hot_ , actually," he said, face lighting up. "I'll close my eyes," he said, wrapping Arthur's hand around his own, and grasping his cock, "if you show me how you like it."

* * *

It was certainly another thing Arthur had never done before, instructing someone in his own masturbatory technique, hence it was awkward and embarrassing. Plus, Curt kept forgetting to close his eyes, so Arthur would scold him, and then they would both end up giggling, so the whole thing didn't feel especially sexy. Still, they kept at it, and Curt's hips resumed their movement, and soon, between them, they developed an easy rhythm, which Curt matched to his thrusts, and so it became very sexy indeed.

For Arthur, the double stimulation was not entirely unfamiliar, but about a hundred times more intense than he'd remembered.

For all of the banging and slamming Curt enjoyed, he really did like it _slow_ , just as they were doing, for it magnified the intensity of the sensations.

He knew it wasn't going to take either of them long, and when they reached the point where Arthur's eyes had sealed shut and he was biting through his own his lip, Curt dropped his hand and let Arthur take over.

Watching the movement of Arthur's fist - Curt could no longer be expected to keep his eyes shut - as well as of Arthur - mouth hung wide, chest heaving, that insanely sexy slow motion full body _slither_ ... and then, as Curt sped up, the sudden cries and shooting spurts of white ... pushed Curt, too, over the edge.

* * *

Curt could help himself not, and dove into the white, lapping it off Arthur's torso and kissing him hard on the mouth.

"You're _so fucking hot,"_ he hissed.

 _'No,"_ Arthur said, wheezing, _"you_ are. I've _never been with anyone like you."_

Curt stopped. He was taken aback, though quickly realized he shouldn't have been. Arthur was relatively inexperienced, after all. And he was only talking about the sex, right?

Curt's inner voice responded. _Yes. About what a fucking freakass perv you are._

* * *

Arthur's lids were drooping. As Curt watched, he grinned a wide, lazy grin and seemed to move in slow motion. His hand raised, fingers spreading through the long hair behind Curt's head, gently cupping his skull and bringing it close for a long, sweet, exceptionally tender kiss. A kiss they hadn't shared before.

When it was done, Curt looked. Arthur was _glowing_. The smile radiating up at him seemed, in fact ... _loving_.

Which was preposterous, Curt thought. _We've known each other five days._ _People don't fall in love in five days. It's just the orgasm afterglow. Or the crush. Same one he's had for a decade._

 _Right?_

* * *

They didn't speak; neither felt the need, falling asleep, arms and bodies entwined, Arthur Stuart half way in love with Curt Wild.

* * *

Some time later Arthur awoke to find himself alone on the couch. He listened intently, assuming Curt was using the loo, but heard nothing. Perhaps, having trouble sleeping, he had moved himself to the floor, or bed. Arthur arose, and checked both - no Curt. _My god,_ Arthur thought in a panic, whipping his head around, _has he left?_ His flat was completely dark, except, he noticed, for a tiny glowing ember out on the balcony ... which turned out to be the tip of Curt's cigarette.

He approached, opened the door, and laid a soft hand on Curt's back.

"Hey," he said.

It was temperate out, with a slight breeze.

"Hey."

They were silent for a minute, watching the twinkling lights of the London skyline.

"Did I wake you?" Curt said quietly.

"No. Had to pee," he lied.

"Me, too," Curt said, blowing out the smoke, "and then I needed to indulge my one remaining addiction." He turned his head and said with a small grin, "Aside from your backside."

Arthur smiled shyly.

They fell silent again. Arthur reflected on the day they had had together, on the week; on the intense sense of connection he felt with Curt, and the unmentionable feeling he was trying to squelch.

As he stood with him in this ridiculously romantic setting - the moon and the stars and the city he loved below - he found it nearly impossible to refrain from taking Curt's hand.

"If I had a balcony like this ..." Curt whispered, interrupting Arthur's ponderings.

 _Maybe you will,_ Arthur immediately thought. _Maybe one day you'll live here, with me._

* * *

Curt hadn't lied. He _had_ come out here to smoke - he sure as hell wasn't going to stink up Arthur's gorgeous flat with his filthy habit - but, after lying awake for ages staring at the beautiful young man beside him, he had also come out here to think.

He'd stumbled, out of the clear blue, upon something, some _one_ , who was kind of everything he hadn't known he was still looking for. And it woke him up, and made him feel alive. Just seeing himself through Arthur's eyes these few days, instead of his own, through the eyes of someone who _didn't_ see him as a loser and a failure and worse, had lifted him out of a depression he didn't think he even knew he'd been experiencing, so normal a state had it become.

He wanted to tell these things to Arthur. He wanted to say, no matter what happens, _thank you for this week._

He wanted to picture that they could continue as they were, and that Arthur wouldn't soon come to his senses, see who he was with - the real guy, not the rock star - and go off to find someone else. There would be so many _someone elses_ out there for Arthur the moment he shed his shell, Curt was sure. This thing between them now, Curt was equally sure, would fizzle and die the moment Arthur stopped seeing him through the eyes of his 17 year old self.

And so Curt teetered between reaching for the thing that made him feel alive, because he was human and couldn't help himself, and because there was a chance, however slim, that it might work; and walking away from it, now, because it almost certainly wouldn't.

Both options terrified him.

* * *

They were each lost in their thoughts, silent together on the balcony for long enough that it worried Arthur. Curt was his guest, as well as his budding friend, and he'd awoken, restless and barely speaking.

"You okay?" he finally asked.

Curt looked at him, and then back at the city.

"Ya, sorry, I'm just ... I've had a ... I've had a really amazing day, that's all. A really amazing _few_ days, actually."

"Me, too," Arthur said quietly.

They were silent for another minute before Curt spoke again, slowly, carefully thinking out his words, nervous as hell.

"I was thinking, I'm glad you walked into the bar that night."

Arthur smiled. "Me, too."

"I don't ... thing is, I don't tend to meet a lot of new people," Curt continued.

"Me, either."

Pause.

"It's just so weird, isn't it?" He said, looking briefly at Arthur, and then away again. "That we met before, back then? And then we meet again, years later, by total accident?"

"Yes," Arthur said, nodding, "very."

Pause.

Seeing as these were the first mentions made to date of their relationship, or friendship, or hookup-ship, or whatever it was that was going on, Arthur could barely breathe during the pauses, they felt so pregnant.

Curt, for his part, could barely breathe, himself, as he teetered the line between reaching forwards, and stepping back. He hadn't been planning to mention he and Arthur as an 'item' because, why bother at this very early stage? Things were moving along smoothly, and if Arthur hadn't joined him just now on the balcony, he probably wouldn't have. But that was exactly it - the moment Arthur appeared, there was all that damned _energy_ , again, that intense sense of connectedness; the feeling, for Curt, that he'd known Arthur all his life. It made him semi-euphoric.

He recalled reading in some waiting room magazine about a study that documented a thing called, from what he remembered, 'new relationship energy', and figured this was probably what was going on. They were _new_ to each other, there was definitely _energy_ ... and so that left just that one remaining scary word ... _'relationship'._

 _So if that is what's happening,_ Curt thought _... if that's where this is maybe going ... what the hell do I do?_

* * *

Arthur, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the continued silence, cleared his throat.

"Um, I just wanna mention ... about 'back then', while we're on the subject ... that you were incredibly sweet."

Curt turned his head.

"Sweet?"

"Yes. I was ... petrified, of course, but you couldn't have been nicer."

Curt looked off again, and thought a moment before speaking.

"Well, good," he said, and took a breath. "Honestly, I'm embarrassed to say ... I remember basically nothing about it."

He looked back at Arthur.

"What did I ... what did we ... _do?"_

Arthur smiled shyly.

"You invited me up onto a rooftop."

"A rooftop?"

"Of the building where you'd played that night."

"Oh god," Curt winced. "Real romantic."

"Well ... I wasn't necessarily looking for romance but ... it was lovely, just the same. A bit cold, though. It was December."

"Damn. We must've froze!"

"No. I was ... far too preoccupied. It was my first time, actually. With a man. With anyone."

Curt looked at him, horrified. "Jesus _Christ_ , you're kidding."

"No," Arthur said, laughing.

"Let me right here and now apologize."

"For _what?"_

"Oh my god, for you wasting your virginity on a sleezeball like me, obviously."

"Are you kidding? You realize it was a total dream come true for me, right? It took me the _whole rest of that year_ to get past it."

"But you were just a kid," he said, shaking his head slowly, "I feel bad it was somebody like me, instead of ..."

"Instead of what? A boy my own age, fumbling round awkwardly, or some random middle aged sweaty bloke in the park? Because that's who it usually is."

Curt shrugged, saying nothing.

"Trust me, the roof was _magical_. A huge shooting star even went off over our heads, in the middle of it _."_

"Huh," Curt grunted. "Weird."

"It was my first beer, also, mind you," Arthur said, grinning.

"Good _Christ_. Talk about corrupting a minor. _Tell_ me I didn't get you drunk."

" _No_. And what makes you think you would've needed to? It was lovely, the whole thing, and it really did, easily, make my year."

The two of them continued to look off at the city, reflecting, and upwards, absently, at the starry night.

"Funny to think," Curt said, "this same city, this same sky ..."

* * *

Arthur didn't want to let on, any more than he already had, but the rooftop was pretty much a watershed moment in his life. Firstly, being invited, at all, to hang out, if only briefly, with his idol, with a person who was truly, for Arthur, _the_ pinnacle of cool, glamourous, sexy ... was of course completely mind shattering. But to then feel, in the brief time they were together, not only apparently semi-liked and accepted by this person, but clearly _desired_ by him - Arthur, who was chronically square, friendless and insecure, who felt always the outcast, the freak, among his peers - it couldn't help but have been life changing.

This was to say nothing of the sex itself, which, for Arthur, was transcendent. Yes, he was young and clueless; yes, it was true he didn't know any better, but when nearly all subsequent sexual encounters paled in comparison ... the rooftop inevitably became a powerful trigger, a thing he replayed in his head when the sex he was having was less than stellar, and, many dozens, if not hundreds of times, when alone and needing release.

Here, now standing by the the man who had been there, who had authored this core trigger in him, it was hard for Arthur to not fall under the spell.

He bit his lip, screwed up his courage, and spoke.

"I should mention, too, it was lovely ... but it was also quite hot."

Curt turned his head suddenly.

"Oh?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "For me then ... and for me, now."

Curt continued to look, seeming to want Arthur to continue.

"You, ah ... undressed me. You pulled my shirt off over my head and whispered in my ear ... and turned me round to face the low brick wall."

Curt swallowed. _Damn,_ he thought.

"So ... we ...?"

"Fucked. Standing up, against the bricks. I was 17, but eager; every bit the lustful virgin."

The energy between them hummed and hissed and sparked.

"Good _Christ_ ," Curt said with a weary chuckle, "what're you trying to do ... turn me on?"

Arthur, feeling quite lustful indeed, answered truthfully. "Maybe."

Curt turned and laid a hand on Arthur's naked chest. "What's the matter?" he said, watching his face. _"Three times in a day ain't enough?"_

Arthur smiled shyly. "As they say in my business: _no comment_."

Curt laughed.

"In that case, I guess I have to ask," he said, leaning in, whispering, "By any chance, is there roof access in this building?"

"No," Arthur said leaning in. He loved the way Curt's mind worked. "Afraid not - against building codes, or something."

"Pity," Curt said, fingering Arthur's left nipple. "Sex outside can be _really_ fucking _hot_."

"I, um ... I wouldn't know," Arthur admitted.

"No?" Curt said. "Well ... I do believe a balcony would qualify, wouldn't it? ..."

* * *

They kissed, slowly at first, then with more urgency before Arthur pushed Curt back, promising to return a moment later. Inside his flat, Arthur was nearly dizzy with arousal. At the last moment, as he grabbed for the lube, he spied his previously hastily discarded tshirt ... and pulled it back on.

He returned. Curt locked eyes, in the same steamy way he had the night they met, reached out a hand and ran it slowly down the length of Arthur's shirt, the significance of the added article of clothing not lost on him.

 _"You're so fucking hot,"_ Curt hissed, _"I'll just have to get you naked."_

They resumed their urgent kissing, and Curt quickly turned Arthur against the brick balcony wall, bit down on his ear, and cursed into it.

" _Do you want this?"_ he hissed, pressing himself into Arthur's backside, hands freely roaming his body.

 _Oh God,_ Arthur thought. _I can barely stand it another second._

 _"Yes,"_ he choked out in a rasping, gulping stutter.

Everywhere Curt's hands explored him burned white hot. He thought of the old warning parents used to give their kids: _"If you do it, you'll go blind"_.

Fuck blindness, Arthur thought. His body was so electrified, he felt he would spontaneously combust.

* * *

Curt buried his nose in Arthur's hair and neck, kissing, inhaling his distinctive scent. He'd noticed it the very first time they'd been together - the pleasing, clean, yet slightly pungent aroma of Arthur's flesh.

In the back of his mind he recalled reading somewhere about these things 'pheromones', which were some sort of sense chemical secreted in skin and sweat. It was well documented in animals but less so in humans, from what he recalled, but Curt didn't need proof. He knew that when the scent of his lover's body had been like a tonic to him, that those relationships had worked.

Because chemicals don't lie, apparently.

It was no surprise, in retrospect, then, that he and Brian were doomed from the start, seeing as whatever scent Brian's body may have given off was buried in powders and perfumes.

* * *

Curt slowly lifted the hem of Arthur's shirt, kissing and caressing his smooth, perfect flesh along the way.

 _"You're so fucking hot,"_ he muttered, "I want you _so fucking bad,"_ he said, snaking a hand round the front of the panting, rock hard young man's shorts, and relieving him of them.

* * *

As Curt pressed him into the bricks, Arthur's mind zinged straight back to the rooftop ten years before. He was there, again - the frosty air, the acrid smell of smokestacks, the heat of Curt's breath on his neck, the feeling of being twelve times naked.

For Curt, a memory, too, was emerging. He saw the chimneys and the cold night sky, the bare mattress and the nervous, achingly shy boy,

He pulled Arthur against his chest, and planted a chin on his shoulder, eyes skyward.

 _"Make a wish,"_ he heard himself say.

Arthur braced himself, then, and now, gasping and nearly biting through his lip as Curt entered him. He knew there was a chance, then, and now, of being caught, of his face, hanging off into the air, potentially being recognized, but in the moment, the risk taking, the craziness in this act of pure, free, unmitigated and joyful lust, only fueled his excitement.

* * *

The two pumped and rocked, and Curt ground away at Arthur's body until they each experienced their strongest, most intense orgasms, to date.

They were left a limp, breathless pile wheezing into the night air, neither somehow having fallen over the balcony ledge, not, they realized, that they would have noticed.

* * *

Curt found that he did not want to release Arthur. He hung on, face deep in his hair, high on the night, on the week, on the beautiful boy in his arms.

"You're _amazing_ ," he whispered.

"No," Arthur said, mid-pant, threading his fingers over Curt's, which were wrapped round his waist, " _you_ are."

Curt, fearful of blurting one of the many stupid things in his head, kept his trap shut.

 _It's just the orgasm afterglow,_ he told himself.

 _No it fucking well isn't,_ was his next thought.

* * *

As their breath returned, they slowly straightened and turned to face each other with sweaty, weary grins.

Curt fought with himself at first, then thought, _fuck it_... and took Arthur's hand.

Wanting to do so, but not necessarily wanting to call attention to it, because he really couldn't know if this was indeed a byproduct of the orgasm afterglow, or something more, and also since he couldn't be sure how Arthur might feel about it, he simply did so, turning and walking them back into the flat, pulling Arthur along behind him.

* * *

For the first time in a very long time - it could no longer be denied - Curt Wild was happy.

Arthur, for his part, was not only happy, but somehow both positively, and cautiously, ecstatic.

Either way, as it was 3am, and as they were each so physically and sexually spent, they crawled wordlessly to bed, and fell asleep.

* * *

Not to say that Arthur could sleep much. Curt taking his hand felt _giant_ to him. The biggest thing in the world. Was there any disputing it was a bona fide couple's gesture? He desperately wished he could call up Stephanie right this instant, and tell her. He needed to be able to review this exhaustively with _someone_ , but had to be resigned to mulling it over in his head.

Curt, for his part, woke several times, and, as had become customary, watched Arthur sleep. He tried not to think any big thoughts about their situation, though found that nearly impossible, and did not know how much longer he could keep from saying something.

What the hell he would say, he wasn't exactly sure.

* * *

In the morning, Curt awoke to an empty bed, and the sounds, and always intoxicating scent, of frying bacon. He threw on fresh underwear and the robe Arthur had laid out for him, and walked into the kitchen.

The enormous smile and look of badly concealed adoration that met him made Curt disgusted with himself for having danced around so much. Not speaking his mind was alien to him; normally something he detested, and surely Arthur deserved to not be toyed with. He knew, too, that Arthur, being younger and less secure with men, would not be the one to make a move either way. Hence, Curt decided it was time.

They kissed, and Arthur lingered a moment, putting a hand in Curt's hair and looking at him lovingly, before returning to the stove. Arthur's feelings did indeed seem obvious. The dilemma for Curt being, _but ... does he see me for who I actually am? The loser? The old burnout? Or is he still somehow seeing the guy on stage?_

"I hope you're okay with bacon and scrambled eggs."

"Hell ya; are you kidding? Perfect. Thank you."

"I made fresh squeezed orange juice, too. Is that okay? I used my new juicer machine."

Curt sat himself down at the table.

"Absolutely. I feel very spoiled."

"No, it's my pleasure," Arthur said, scooping the eggs onto a plate. "I haven't made breakfast for anyone in ages."

As soon as he said it, he was embarrassed. _Idiot_ he thought. _Why let on about how little action you get?_ _It's not exactly attractive. Maybe Curt wonders what's wrong with you, that you never get any._

What Arthur didn't know was how _very_ attractive this one thing was to Curt; a total bonus, how _un_ used and un-around-the-block Arthur was.

It wasn't at all what Curt was accustomed to, and it made him realize what Arthur represented. Or rather, what he didn't.

It was simple. And kinda beautiful.

Arthur wasn't someone that anyone could have.

* * *

They ate, and discussed their plans for the day, and Curt thanked him profusely for hosting him this weekend, told him how much he was enjoying himself ... and then finally stopped beating around the bush.

"I, ah ... I just wanna say, in thinking about when we first met, and shit ... I realize I don't know anyone from _back then,_ the glam rock days, anymore - not since a long time, now."

Arthur listened, and waited.

"And that's by choice."

He looked at Arthur briefly and then down at his empty plate again.

Curt took a deep breath, and allowed himself to spill.

"You can probably guess that that period has been very tainted for me - an awful lot of poisonous bad blood."

Arthur nodded once, briefly, having no idea otherwise how to respond.

"Thing was, pretty much everybody you met had an agenda. You were a dollar sign, to them, or a dick and a hole, or ... a conduit for drugs, or, y'know, somebody's arm candy."

Arm candy. _Was that the way he had seen himself with Brian?_ Arthur thought. More strangely, _was that how Brian had seen Curt? But don't they have that completely backwards?_

"And you start to buy into it," Curt continued. "To see people, and the world in that same way. Completely sick, and toxic."

Arthur was stunned, and honored, that Curt was opening up in such a personal way about 'back then'.

Curt stopped. Had he said too much?

No, he thought. Telling Arthur the truth, about then, about now, just felt right on a deep gut level.

"People've said to me, many times, 'wow, what a fantastic experience.' They have no _idea_ ... " (Pause, deep breath) ... "Honestly ... for every high point, guaranteed, there were about 400 points so low you wanted to fucking _die."_

He looked off briefly, then back again.

"That's just the truth. And I nearly _did_ die a few times, because of the drugs, and such."

Arthur felt a mix of emotions. As someone with strong feelings for Curt, it naturally pained him to hear of the troubles he had suffered. He also felt terrible guilt for what he already knew about the same time period, and for, in his youth, finding it all part of the romance and glamour, when in reality, it was so ugly and destructive.

"Sorry," Curt continued. "I don't mean to get all heavy on you. My point is, that ..." He stopped to take a long breath before continuing. "It just feels so strange, suddenly," he continued, looking at Arthur, "you have no idea what it feels like, for once, to have this link to back then that _isn't_ tainted, or poisonous; that's been a total fucking positive; _so_ good, and cool. And fun," he smiled, "and sexy."

Arthur was embarrassed by the compliments, and also, of course, completely knocked flat.

 _"I'm so glad,"_ he said, shyly.

 _God_ , Curt thought. _Shit._ The sheer, so obvious sincerity in that statement.

It had been too long since he'd encountered anyone this genuine, he realized. Without baggage, without an agenda. _You have to keep going,_ he thought. _You have to tell him how you feel._

He took a very deep breath, dropped his hand to the seat of his chair, and gripped it tight. The release of emotions and what he was about to say had been making it shake.

"I've never been any good at this shit." He said, looking Arthur straight in the eye. "I know it's only been a few days, but ..." He paused. "I just ... it's weird. I feel like we've known each other forever."

"Me, too," Arthur said.

"Really?" Curt said, thoroughly relieved and elated.

"Yes."

Curt licked his lips and spoke slowly.

"I like you _so_ much, Arthur, and I just feel this ... intense connection with you, and, unless I'm nuts, I get the sense the feeling's mutual. If I'm wrong about that, please, do me a favor; put me out of my misery and tell me now."

Arthur's face colored.

 _"No,"_ he said, his own voice betraying great agitation. "You're _not_ wrong."

 _"_ Okay." Curt said, relieved, but still nervous as fuck. "So ... I guess that means I need to ask. ... Are you, like, seeing anyone?"

Arthur didn't understand the question. _Seeing anyone?_ Hadn't they discussed just the previous day that Arthur didn't have a boyfriend?

Then it struck him. Here was a man who had once, famously, lived simultaneously with both a girlfriend, and a boyfriend. In Curt's world, at least at one point, orgies were standard, and multiple partners the rule rather than the exception. Was this still the world he inhabited? Or did he somehow assume Arthur did?

And just as an aside ... _wasn't Curt Wild asking him out in a more-than-one-date-at-a-time way?_

Stunned and struggling to process this last thought, he shook his head for emphasis. "No. Not seeing anyone. Dead single."

The two men studied each other for long moments before Arthur screwed up the courage to ask.

"You?" he said.

"No," Curt said, shaking his head. "Not a soul."

They fell silent again, watching each other's faces, both too freaked and nervous to make the next move, until Curt finally did.

"So ... do you maybe wanna see _me?"_

Arthur nearly fell off the planet.

* * *

Curt spoke quickly. "I mean, I'm nobody's idea of a great boyfriend-"

 _-Boyfriend!_ Oh. My. God. He said it.

"-But, just so you know, I'm off drugs. Completely clean. Many months, now."

"Okay," Arthur said flatly, in an utterly stunned state.

"And I would't hold you to anything, I swear."

 _Hold me to anything?_

"Again, I'm no prize. Not by a long motherfucking shot. I'm broke. I'm chronically unemployed. I'm kind of a generally sorry, miserable asshole, with an embarrassingly high sex drive for somebody my age, so, I swear to god, Arthur ... when something better comes along, I'll completely understand and won't hold it against you; I promise. I'd just like to keep seeing you, in the meantime; that's all." He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. " _You bring me a lot of joy."_

* * *

It wasn't often that Arthur _wasn't_ at a loss for words, but Curt's low regard for himself, and then his last statement, certainly, wholly wrenched his heart; hence, he had even less of an ability to speak. He was humbled, and startled, and stunned, and exhausted emotionally and otherwise, as well as slightly delirious from the insane twists and turns his life had taken this week ... only to have it culminate _here_ , this absolutely incredible _here_ , with _this_.

"I, um ... would very much like to see you."

He was immediately embarrassed at how 'reserved Englishman' it sounded.

Curt smiled. "Stop, with the _bombast_ , already."

"I just mean," Arthur said quickly, "you bring me a lot of joy, too."

Curt took a deep breath. The terror of the moment was fading. He stood, and took Arthur's hand.

 _"That's the best thing I've heard in a decade."_


	4. Chapter 4

It may have been the best thing that Curt had heard in a decade. It was certainly the best thing Arthur had heard in forever.

Arthur's head was in permanent swim/spin-mode. His feet really sort of hadn't touched the ground in nearly a week. How could they? How could his head, or any part of him, possibly be expected to be screwed on straight?

In other words ... what the hell are you supposed to _do_ , to _feel_ , when your number one decade-long fantasy comes roaring to full colour screamng life?

And is standing here ... _holding your fucking hand!?_

 _CHRIST!_

It was a wonder Arthur wasn't running around in circles, jumping up and down, crying and screaming at the top of his lungs like a bloody lunatic.

Pinching himself would not do. He would have to _punch_ himself, or chop off his own arm, or something, to check if it - any of it - was real.

* * *

"Thanks again for breakfast," Curt said, grinning.

"Oh," Arthur answered, trying to sound relaxed, "my pleasure," he continued, taking the cup and placing it in the sink.

"So ... you're really, like ... genuinely okay with this?"

"Sorry?" Arthur asked, wondering what it was he had agreed to in his fog shrouded state.

Curt pointed from Arthur to himself.

"You and me ... giving it a go."

 _Giving it a go_. Arthur was charmed by how 'laid back American' it sounded.

"Oh ... um, yes. Definitely." he said. "I mean, if _you_ are," he added quickly.

Curt gave him the beaming-sunrise smile which set him back even further on his heels. "Definitely," he said, kissed him, and sat back down at the table. "I just, again ... wanna reiterate a bit here, cuz otherwise, I'll feel guilty."

"Reiterate?"

"Ya. About myself. I'm completely clean - no drugs, like I said. Passed rehab this time with flying colors, but that's not my only issue." He paused to take a breath before continuing. "You seem like a well adjusted, even tempered, well raised guy, Arthur. I'm, unfortunately, none of those things. I'm a mess - a moody depressive, with very little going on."

Curt paused here, and looked at Arthur, who wasn't sure if, or how to respond.

"That's ... okay," Arthur said haltingly. Was it even _okay_ to say that these things, even things he didn't quite comprehend ('moody depressive'?), were 'okay'?

"I guess my point is ..." Curt took another breath here. "I don't know if you even realize how attractive you are, and I'm not just talkin' your looks."

Jesus fucking Christ. Did Curt Wild just call him _handsome?_

"You've got _so_ much going on, Arthur. You're a total 'catch', and you can easily do miles better than me, so I really do just wanna establish going into this that when that person comes along ..."

Arthur stopped listening. Curt, the object of his greatest - maybe _only_ ever realized fantasy - the one that had barely had time to come to life - was inadvertently ruining it, by insisting on predicting it's demise.

How to convey, without sounding like a naive, gushing fan, that he _very much_ liked and wanted to be in a relationship with Curt - of course he did! - and that he didn't view Curt as some sort of place holder until something 'better' came along? How to convey that he had exactly zero intention of looking around for a quote unquote better offer?

And how to speak, at the same time, to the bigger, scarier 'seeing anyone' question Curt had raised earlier, given Curt's history with open, and multiple concurrent relationships?

"Um ..." Arthur began tentatively. "Can I just say ... the bit about not holding me to anything, and 'miles better' and how awful, and undesirable you are ..."

Curt laughed. "Ya?"

"I just feel like ..." Arthur took a deep, nervous breath. "If we're ... if we're going to continue to see each other, from my perspective, it's because I genuinely like you and I really _want_ to see you. I find you _very_ desirable, or I wouldn't-"

Curt chuckled. "-You say that _now_ ..."

"Yes, I _do_ say that now. I feel like we ... what is that word? _Click_. I'm really very comfortable with you. I'm _not_ comfortable with most people - I don't have, what do they call it - _chemistry_ \- with most people, but we _do_ seem to obviously have that, in droves, and-"

"-I know, but I'm just saying, I have nothing; no money, no career; nothing. I'm the furthest thing from a 'catch' that there is, Arthur, whereas you could totally pull-"

Arthur was annoyed.

"-It's not a contest, Curt. And I'm not so shallow that I tick off boxes and if there aren't enough ticked, then we can't date, or something. I've enjoyed the shit out of your company this week, isn't that obvious? It's a very good beginning, in my book."

Curt took a breath, and smiled.

"I've enjoyed the shit our of yours, too."

Arthur grinned, despite himself.

"And you're right," Curt continued. "We're off to a good start, but I just ... You seem to like me, and that's great, obviously, but when that happens - the few times it happens to me these days - I can't help it. I'm paranoid. Don't take offense, but my self esteem is low enough that when somebody expresses an interest, I start to wonder if they're seeing the real me, versus the guy I was _back then_ , because otherwise, why would ..."

Arthur was torn. Because there _was_ some truth to it. It was easier said than done, separating the man he idolized growing up, from the man before him. In the back of his mind, he _did_ privately fear that his infatuation may have been playing at least some role in his feelings this week. Realistically, how could it not? But at the same time, he knew he had immensely enjoyed Curt's company, just the two of them talking like normal adults. Arthur wasn't standing in a crowd looking up at a stage or reading a Rolling Stone interview. Face to face, hour after hour of conversation and discussion, of sharing interests and discovering or rediscovering new ones together, the energy and electricity that always seemed to be present between them, the intense sexual connection, he _had_ to think, had it _not_ been Curt, had it been some other bloke, that he would be feeling the same way.

Yet at the same time he also knew that wasn't entirely true. Because some other bloke _was not Curt Wild._ Was it possible for Arthur to simultaneously hold onto his infatuation to a degree, while also seeing Curt _the_ _real person_? Could he not have both?

* * *

Watching Arthur process what was being told to him made Curt want to leap into the air and take it all back. What he had said may have been true, but did he really want to scare off this best-prospect-for-a-boyfriend-in-many-years? Was it really wise, was it really necessary, to rub all of the bad shit in Arthur's face?

 _Fuck, yes,_ a part of him said. _I don't wanna lie to him. It's best he knows what he's getting into, or we'll both end up hurt. Concealment never works. For long, anyway._

 _Fuck, no,_ the other half of him said. _What the fuck is wrong with you? You really dig this kid, and the feeling's clearly mutual, the sex is A-one_ _kickin' and there's all that damned energy and connection and ... seriously, how the fuck often does all of that happen at once?_

"Sorry," Curt blurted. "I'll shut my stupid trap before I ruin the whole thing."

Arthur screwed up his courage.

"No it's just that ... I um ... I don't know what to say. You're being honest with me, and I respect that and want to do the same." He took a deep breath. "I've never been through something like this before. There's no manual out there for meeting your idol, and separating your idealized views of him from the reality."

This last sentence sent a chill through Curt.

"But," Arthur continued, "at the same time, we've spent so many hours together this week, so much conversation about our lives, and we've connected so much ... I feel like, unless I'm crazy, that it's given me a pretty good glimpse, at least, into you as a real person, and ... honestly, I really _like_ that person. I get along really well, and really effortlessly with that person, even if, in the back of my mind, I still, maybe, at certain moments, maybe look at you and think, _my god, that's Curt Wild."_

Curt laughed.

"I mean ..." Arthur continued, "what do you think about that? How uncomfortable does that make you? Can you imagine yourself meeting a person you idolized, and then beginning a relationship with him?"

"I don't have to imagine it," Curt said flatly. "I mean, I wasn't 17 when he and I first met but ..."

Curt stopped there, leaving Arthur to wonder ... _who was he talking about? Brian?_ He didn't dare ask, of course.

"But ..." Curt continued. "Y'know, I guess that was different." Curt rose from his chair. "Listen, I badly need a smoke. Can we talk out on your balcony?"

* * *

Curt lit up, and the two leaned against the railing, looking at the city below.

"Since we're being dead honest with each other, I have to admit, it does make me a bit uncomfortable, the whole 'idol' thing," Curt said, giving Arthur a quick glance before looking away again. "I can't help it - the fame thing - the thinking I'm _that guy_ on stage thing - has poisoned more than a few relationship for me. Because ... I can't live up to _that guy._ No possible way - not these days, anyway. I could pull it off pretty well back then, playing the badass renegade outlaw, or whatever, the 'rock star', but, ultimately, that guy was largely a fiction."

He took a long drag and blew it out as Arthur waited on tenterhooks.

"It's happened to me both ways. When I got together with the guy I had sort of idolized, it ultimately crumbled because I wasn't seeing _him_. I was seeing the _star_ , the guy in the glossy magazines, and you can't build anything on that, right? I mean, you can have fun. You can have a blast and stay in fantasyland for a while. But it can't work out on any real level unless you're actually digging the _real person,_ warts and all."

Arthur was a mix of emotions. He felt guilty and also slightly crushed. Had he been kidding himself? Had these days with Curt been exercises in 'fantasyland'? He wanted to rush to his own defense, but wasn't sure that he could defend himself. It must have shown on his face, which had fallen to his shoes, because Curt reached for his hand again.

"Listen, I'm a bitter, paranoid old bastard. I like you a lot, Arthur, or I would't've asked you out. I guess I like you so much, I'm just trying to-"

"-I understand," Arthur said quietly, feeling as low as he ever had, eyes glued to the railing.

 _Maybe this is it, then,_ he thought.

* * *

Curt felt rotten. He wanted to rewind the entire conversation and start again, so much did it kill him to see Arthur's face.

 _Congratulations, genius. You go and scare off this prize of a kid, and break his heart, just to satisfy your stupid motherfucking insecurities? Brilliant!_

* * *

Arthur straightened up suddenly.

 _But,_ the investigative journalist in him suddenly thought _... wait!_

 _There may be no manual for this, but Curt had been through this himself. Which means he may already have some answers ..._

Arthur looked away from the railing and at Curt, dead in the eye

"Can I ask, with your idol ... was it how you felt - the strong connection we seem to have, the feeling like we've known each other a long time - was that what you felt with him?"

Curt took another tense drag on his cig, thought it over a minute, and was relieved to report that, actually, upon reflection ... "Well, no. It was rocky, pretty much from the get go. A disaster in the making."

 _Good,_ Arthur thought, though kept his neutral reporter's face.

"What about with the people that you dated who thought of you as _that guy?_ Did they ever tell you, or did you ever feel a strong sense of connection with them, or was it ...?"

Curt reflected again, scanning back through his mind, seeing the perpetually starry eyed faces of the men and/or women he'd dated ... and was again happy to report: "Well ... No. Not really."

The two men searched the other's face as if it held the answer to their conundrum ... which as it turned out, it sort of did.

They shared small, slow, relieved yet radiant smiles.

"So I guess maybe that's a green light, then, do you think?" Curt said, eyes twinkling, stubbing out his cig.

Arthur thought.

* * *

"You realize," Curt said, "all this pondering and discussion and shit, makes us like the worst faggots ever."

Arthur laughed. "What? Why?"

"Two _guys_ fussing about a potential relationship, processing every possible outcome ahead of time, iike a couple of lesbians. And I can say that because my oldest friend who is a hardcore dyke talks about this thing they jokingly call LDP, which stands for _'lesbian deep process',_ which is like _girl, overload._ Two guys are supposed be _guy_ _overload_ and fuck like mad out and hardly say anything."

Arthur laughed again. He felt over the moon, but tried to keep his elation in check.

"She told me a joke about it, once. What do lesbians do on their second date, versus what gayboys do?"

"Um ... I don't know," Arthur replied.

"Rent a Uhaul."

"A what?"

"Sorry - maybe that's an American term. It's a moving company - you can rent their trucks and vans for when you move into a new place. The joke being that on only their second date, two women have already committed and are already moving in."

"Okay. So what do two gay man do on their second date?"

"Well the punchline to the joke is, _'what second date?'"_

They laughed.

* * *

"I'll just say one more thing about it, even though it'll make me even more of a dyke," Curt continued. "It's not fair of me to put pressure on you either way. My insecurities in this area are well earned, mind you, but that's my deal, not yours. And, it's fucking early days, right? I've said my piece, about myself, and what bad news I am, etc. Bottom line, I'd still like to keep seeing you." He shrugged. "It could crumble at any point, of course, any relationship can, but meanwhile, we're digging each other and having a good time. We can only keep giving it a try, and see how things go, right?"

Arthur's heart soared, but also felt slightly bruised by his point. In one short conversation he'd gone from hopeful and happy, to crushed and despondent, back to giddy and hopeful, again.

"Right. And it's not like I'm perfect, myself. Far from it. Sometimes I'm hard pressed to speak for days at a time, and it can drive people nuts. I have my issues and problems and quirks and vast insecurities, and so yes, we can only keep giving it a try. I know I would very much like to, myself."

Curt briefly touched Arthur's hand which rested on the railing next to his.

"Good, then," he said, grinning. "It's settled. _Phew_." He laughed.

Arthur did not. He still had another, potentially stickier issue to raise, which made his stomach tense.

"There _is_ one other thing I wanted to mention, before we leave this topic, and forgive me - this is a bit awkward, but ..."

"Go ahead. Shoot."

"Okay well ... my understanding is that you've had some, um ... non traditional relationships in the past, and-"

"-'Non traditional'?"

"Um, well ..." Arthur said, breaking out in a sweat, "... simultaneous ... relationships with multiple ... people. Am I wrong about that?"

"No."

"Okay, well ... I just wanted to say that ... um, I'm not sure how to put this, but ... it'd still be worth it to me to see you, even if you saw, y'know, other people, as well. I can be, y'know, flexible, I'm sure."

Curt's face flushed. It was the people-even-lovers-you're-trying-to-court-all-know-your-private-shit thing which he still to this day found difficult to swallow. Unlike many of his 70s cohorts who had turned right wing conservative in the miserable, grey decade that the 80s was becoming, he wasn't ashamed of the 'non traditional' sexual life he had had. His own parents lifelong pairing, and the pairings of most long term married couples he had known when growing up had been absolutely _miserable_ for _decades_. No joy, no love at all, barely tolerance - borderline and sometimes outright hatred, in fact - where his parents were concerned. Hence he, as well as many of his generation, had made it a point in their own lives to explore alternatives. Sometimes they worked out for a while and he would find them sexually and emotionally fulfilling and/or a blast, sometimes he found love, and sometimes the experiences were disasters he regretted ... which was the exact same track record when he would see one person exclusively.

In truth, the latter had been a more common arrangement for him, but the press thrived on the juicier shit, and he had been encouraged to talk that up as much as possible, and hence it had become a permanent part of his image - the tri-sexual outlaw.

"Sorry," Arthur said in a panic. "I didn't mean to-"

"-No. It's okay. It's just a bit weird, that's all." He looked off, and back again. "It's just ... bizarre when people know shit about you." He took a breath. "You sort of never get used to it. I mean ... try and imagine if I suddenly started to recount some facts to you - including sexual ones - about you, from your past. It would feel pretty surreal, right?"

"Yes." _Oh god, why did I say anything?_

Curt took a big breath and spoke earnestly.

"I've had a pretty crazy life overall. You probably know a fair amount about it already. Management liked me to spew all I could back then, and I didn't need much of a push. Of course, not all of it was true, but enough of it was. Relationship wise, I've had a lot of history and variety, and I'm not ashamed of that, frankly." He shrugged. "Variety isn't a bad thing, and I was young, and famous, or _in_ famous, and to a large degree it went with the territory."

Arthur nodded.

"Truth is, the open relationships and multi-relationships I had were about as successful as when I was seeing just one person. Both had their good, and sometimes great sides, and also shitty sides. To this day, I think they are all valid relationship styles, honestly, and again, I don't regret them one bit, but at the same time, I wouldn't ask someone to be in an open thing with me if it wasn't their thing. It's certainly a _whole_ goddamn fuck of a lot more complicated, fuck knows."

Arthur laughed, which helped to ease the tension.

"Also, it has to be said," Curt continued. "I'm old, now-"

"-You're _not_ old."

"-I'm _ancient_ , and while I try to keep an open mind, one person at a time is probably all I could handle nowadays, so, unless that was your thing, too, I wouldn't ask you to be 'flexible', or whatever."

Arthur tried not to show how relieved he was.

"Okay, well ... I just wanted to put it out there, that if you _did_ want to be with someone else, I'd totally be willing to-"

Curt turned, took his hand, and looked him dead in the eye.

 _"I don't."_

* * *

The two men gazed at the each other and the skyline awhile, and moved onto less fraught topics such as the weather, and their plans for the day, with Curt offering to leave after showering, to give Arthur time to himself, and to not overstay his welcome ... but Arthur wouldn't hear of it.

"Please feel free to stay the rest of the day, if you want." Arthur said shyly. "Honestly."

"You sure you wanna spend your whole entire weekend with a big lesbian like _me?"_

"Given all we've done this week," Arthur said, grinning. "I do believe you're the furthest thing from a lesbian."

* * *

The two men walked back inside and proceeded to shower together, saying very little as they washed each other's bodies. For Arthur, who had long worshipped Curt's beautiful blonde mane, it was especially wonderful to dig his hands into the thick, soft strands, lathering in the suds, and rinsing them out. He had seen Curt's hair onstage a bit sweaty and wet, but never plastered to him as it was now, which he found spectacularly alluring. Curt was certainly the sole reason he had long been into (blue eyed) blondes.

For Curt, who had a major thing for Arthur's naked back, and really, for Arthur's everything, the excuse the shower gave him for a lathered, full body fondling was pretty fucking sweet. Soon, with soaped up hands, they were standing face to face, kissing and slowly masturbating each other over long minutes, before Curt rinsed Arthur off, threw down a folded up towel, knelt, and took him orally.

Arthur weaved his fingers into the blonde, and wavered on his feet. As Curt worked him over, he found he had to be careful to keep from ripping out large hunks of hair, the sensations were so powerful.

Suddenly, seconds from shuddering orgasm, Curt stopped dead, and was turning him towards the wall in order to position his face in Arthur's exquisite backside. Arthur, still reeling from the intensity of the blow job, was immediately reduced to a moaning, squirming, pleading, foot stamping mess, and when Curt upped the ante further by forbidding him from touching himself, it pushed the whole thing off into erotic supernova-land.

Arthur's cock felt heavy and full, like it never before had; overloaded, weighty, aching, and sore; ready, with the first whisper touch, to burst wide open, he was sure ... and still Curt continued.

Finally, the torment was over, and Curt stood, and held him from behind, his hardness pressing and rubbing into Arthur's lower back.

 _"How did you get so fucking hot?"_ Curt hissed.

Arthur, weary and wholly wasted, barely able to stand, could only helplessly shake his head _no._ He wanted to say it, to tell Curt that it was _him ..._ that _everything_ was _him_ ...but couldn't form words.

 _"You hard?"_ Curt said, tormenting him further by tweaking Arthur's nipples from behind, which sent little electric shocks southward.

Arthur chucked weakly and slowly nodded his head. He was afraid to glance down at himself, afraid to see the swollen, inflamed condition Curt had put him in.

"We need to _fuck."_ Curt said, matter of fact.

 _Oh god,_ Arthur thought, nodding. _Oh god, yes._

"But let's switch it up. I don't bottom all that much, but ..." he said, kissing Arthur's neck, " _I kinda need your cock ..."_

Between the lengthy oral and rimming he'd just been through; the low, sexy whisper in his ear; the nipple torment, and the hard cock rubbing against him, Arthur was in far too deep an erotic fog to pick up on what Curt was saying.

When there was a continued unanswered silence, Curt spoke again.

"I mean, maybe not, if you're not into it ..."

Finally Arthur got that Curt was asking him a question.

"Sorry, what?" he said, turning his head to the side, slurring. "W-what'd y'say?"

Curt kissed his neck, and inhaled the scent of his wet skin.

 _"I said I want you to fuck me."_


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur, was, to put it mildly, in a state of shock. The part of his brain that was still functioning reflected on the fact that in all of his many years of imaginings when it came to Curt and sex, he had never really contemplated being anything other than the party being acted upon - the 'bottom". This was in part due to Curt being older and more experienced, not necessarily due to Arthur's general preference. He considered himself flexible, in fact - a "switch" - was how he had heard it put.

However it was also easier being the bottom for the simple fact that there was that much less responsibility as far as your partner's pleasure - i.e. less risk of being a disappointment, less risk of being deemed a lousy lay. Definitely in the sexual realm, as well as in a few other areas, Arthur suffered from a lack of confidence, whereas Curt didn't seem to have that problem. Perhaps these issues worked themselves out with age, he thought, but at the same time, Arthur was pretty certain that Curt, the bona fide sex god, would not have had these worries even when he was Arthur's age, which would have been at the peak of his stardom. He and Brian, Arthur guessed, were probably amongst _the_ most lusted after creatures - by both genders - in the planet's history, and this went on for a good 3 or 4 _years._

Arthur tried to imagine what it would be like, being able to have whomever you fancied, whenever you fancied, and to not even have to work for it - _the people would_ _come to you_. You would maybe have to fight them off, even. It seemed too incredible to contemplate.

He didn't spend much time contemplating it, however, for, somehow, some way, he had actually been granted the privilege of 'having' - and getting to know, and enjoy the company of - the one person in the universe he wanted more than any other.

* * *

" _So ..."_ Curt whispered, licking Arthur's neck, further tweaking a nipple, _"you game?"_

Arthur shuddered in place.

 _Oh god. What to say?_

As things go, it was a small ask - hell, it was an absolute mind blowing _honor_ to _be_ asked! And Lord know _s_ Curt deserved whatever the hell he wanted, considering how much virtually nonstop sexual pleasure, both masturbatory, and in real life, he had given Arthur to date.

So ... no. He could not really say 'no'. It was just that the thought terrified him. He didn't want Curt to think he sucked at sex. He didn't _want_ to suck at sex. And maybe he wouldn't, or didn't but ... _this was Curt Wild_ \- the guy who had dated models and rock stars - _the most desired people in the world -_ people with miles more sexual skill and experience than Arthur ever would.

Should he admit to his misgivings? Wouldn't it kill the mood?

And speaking of mood ... why wasn't his penis hearing his tension and jitters? Why was it still in this _any-second-now_ , hyper-stimulated state?

 _"Arthur?"_ Curt asked softly, tonguing his lobe. "Game, or ...?"

Enough.

Before he could weasel out of it, Arthur muttered out a breathy _"yes"._

* * *

 _Fuck_ , he thought with horror. _Oh no,_ he thought further, as Curt positioned himself in front, facing the wall, his glorious, shower-glistened backside beckoning.

It was a classic case, a textbook, clinical motherfucking case, of _'be careful what you wish for.'_

Curt Wild's arse. Curt Wild's _naked fucking arse - right here in_ _the literal flesh!_

Yes, they had had sex, and had showered together, but each time, Curt had faced him. Hence, other than when Arthur had hung on during missionary, Arthur had not really seen or experienced the beauty and magnificence of these cheeks - the ones he had heretofore only seen in old, grainy black and white images taken the times Curt had mooned his audience. As a teen, Arthur had gone so far as to write to every rock music collector with an advert in the back of every music magazine he could get ahold of, requesting, begging really, for "absolutely any and all photographs of Curt Wild", and had them sent to his house. Even though the envelopes were addressed to him, he had, each time, and for days on end, met the postman at the door, lest his father open the offending package. Most of the photos that arrived were standard stage shots he had seen elsewhere - until one day a naked arse shot was amongst them, and then later, another one, closer and clearer, and hence, much better. The two photos, along with those of him topless, became Arthur's prized, top secret possessions that only he and Stephanie knew about. He would have framed them if he could.

As it stood, he all but wore them out for the masturbating.

Because. Curt had an arse that was _exactly_ the type Arthur longed for most in the world. He didn't stop to ask himself the 'chicken or the egg' question, because he was fairly certain he knew the answer. Whatever type of arse Arthur may have fancied before Curt Wild pinged onto his radar - in truth, he had barely noticed arses before - Curt's was now his absolute dream ideal - the sexiest, the most alluring, the most beautiful he could possibly imagine.

* * *

"I'm all ready," Curt said turning his head, oblivious to Arthur's torment, "if you wanna just _go_."

Arthur took this to mean Curt had apparently fingered himself while he'd been kneeling, the realization of which did _nothing_ _at all_ to quell the pounding and twitching in his loins, which in turn was also not helped by Arthur's hand, tentatively touching the staggeringly beautiful curves before him. He couldn't help himself - it was the only way to confirm that this vision wasn't a byproduct of his lust blinded imagination.

Curt giggled at the contact.

"Okay, so it's not exactly the work of art _yours_ is, and it's definitely got a few miles on it, but I promise you, it can take a good pounding."

 _God, please,_ Arthur thought as the aching from below ratcheted up another dozen notches. _Please don't say anything hot._

"Honestly," Curt continued, "it's been a while, too, and you're young, so like, _don't be afraid to fuck me to a pulp."_

Arthur nearly choked.

"Um ...," he said weakly. (What else could he say to such a thing?) "... um ..."

He resumed his reverent touching, mesmerized by the fullness, the smooth shapeliness and muscularity, the exquisite inward curve just below each hip, the gorgeous downward slope where cheek met thigh, and, at the top, where it all graduated into Curt's beautifully formed lower back. It, everything about it, excited and entranced Arthur, no end.

For the first time in his life, he felt it - he fully and completely _understood -_ to his marrow _-_ why rimming was a thing. It, in fact, took considerable effort for Arthur to keep from falling to his knees to worship Curt from behind.

The only thing that stopped him was ... fear. As a complete novice, he was simply too afraid to be inept at it; too embarrassed to admit to his total lack of experience, though he figured that part would immediately become obvious.

A large part of him, however, didn't care. He was so _taken_ , so entranced, that he knew his mouth would know what to do as it made love to Curt.

He was about to surrender to his buckling knees, in fact, when Curt spoke.

 _"Arthur,"_ he said, turning his head.

Startled out of his reverie, Arthur stopped and looked up. "Yes?"

"Anything wrong?"

"Wrong? Um, n-no _."_

"Good. Then _fuck me,_ already _."_

* * *

"I, um ... well ... there is the little problem of ... I'm not quite sure how to put this, but ... I might have to cool off a bit, first."

"Huh? Cool off? You mean ...?"

Curt turned around in place, and looked down, then up again, with fiery pupils. He went to reach for Arthur, but Arthur jerked himself back.

"Sorry - if you, if you touch it at this point-"

"-You are _so fucking hot,_ " Curt hissed. " _God_ , you have no idea how much I wanna toy with you right now."

Arthur squinted dumbly.

"Toy with me?"

Curt inched closer, eyes wandering Arthur's face. "Yes. _Edge play._ _Hours."_

Arthur stared dumbly. Whatever it was _sounded_ hot, he guessed, but ...

After a beat, Curt spoke.

"Do you know what that is?"

"Um, well ... no," Arthur admitted, face flushing. _God, I'm such a five year old._

A slow, particularly wicked smile spread across Curt's face, followed by a short, breathy laugh.

"Is it too early in the relationship to say _'I love you'?"_

Arthur was momentarily startled and confused, then realized of course that Curt was kidding, and they both laughed.

"Okay," Curt continued, "maybe it is, so I'll just have to settle for informing you that you are the single hottest thing walking this _planet_."

"Sorry?" Arthur laughed again. "Why? Because I'm so green? How can that be-?"

"-Arthur, if you think for a second that that doesn't make you even more appealing than you already are ..."

"But how could it? It's _embarrassing_ -"

"- _No_. _Trust me on this_. You have _nothing_ to be embarrassed about." He placed a hand on Arthur's chest. "You have to understand. It's incredibly exciting for me to be with someone like you, because I kind of never have. I'm used to whores. _Dartboards_."

"Dartboards?"

Curt smiled.

"People who've been ... 'poked', like hundreds of times. By anybody and everybody."

"Oh," Arthur laughed. "But ... at least those people ... they're _skilled._ They won't disappoint you in bed."

Curt raised an eyebrow.

"You don't _seriously_ think you've disappointed me in bed?"

Arthur flushed, and shrugged.

"I just ... I don't ... I don't know what stuff like 'edge play' is."

"And that fact is _exciting_ to me, _not_ disappointing."

"But I'm so _boring_ compared to you; compared to the super hot people you've been with; the models, and Brian, and-"

Curt _winced_ as if he'd been hit.

Arthur stopped dead, but it was too late. He could not have been more horrified, more desperate to backspace/delete what he'd said - the unspeakable reference to _the_ third rail topic of Curt's entire life.

Curt stared; he looked _wounded_ , and instinctively stepped back.

He had had a lot of 'issues' in is life. Some he had brought on himself; others he had resolved or made peace with ... and then there was Brian Slade.

 _Oh my fucking god,_ Arthur thought. _I've just completely ruined everything._

"I'm sorry," he quickly blurted, turning purple with mortification. "This is obviously my insecurities talking. Your past is absolutely _none_ of my business."

* * *

Curt felt blindsided. The mention of the toxic being that was _Slade_ , when it was the last fucking thing on earth he was expecting - when he and Arthur _were_ _in the middle of being intimate_ , for god's sake - felt like the worst, most sickening kick in the gut imaginable.

And somehow, an invasion of his privacy.

It wasn't, or at least, it wasn't Arthur's fault, Curt immediately reminded himself. As a fan growing up, and as a gayboy devoid of literally any other gay role models, he couldn't _not_ be aware of he and Brian.

It was just that it was impossible for Curt to hear _that_ _name,_ the one that had brought him so much pain, and been used by sadistic fucks as a weapon and a dagger for _years_ , and _not_ experience the knee-jerk sense of having been pierced, and diminished.

And yet, he and Arthur's very first conversation, earlier in the week, had revolved very much around Slade, and the world he and Curt had inhabited together, and Curt hadn't blinked.

He was scrambling to remember why this was.

Okay, well, first, he was prepared for it, he realized. He knew going in what the subject matter was going to be. Hell, he had even volunteered to be interviewed. (Yes, it was partly because Arthur was cute, and because Curt was bored, but ...)

Secondly, cute or not, Arthur was just some reporter to him at the time. He had nothing invested in the guy he was telling his stories to, and felt safe in the knowledge that they sure as hell were never going to get anywhere near the relationship, or the split.

Only to find, less than a week later, that he had developed quite strong feelings for the reporter, to the degree that in that brief time, they were already deciding to give it a go in the relationship department, and hence ... he felt newly raw and open. More than he maybe ever had since ... _Brian_ , he was horrified to admit. (How could he have been so stupid?!) Curt had shut down, understandably, since the split, and other than a few times when he came close, had never truly laid himself bare again.

* * *

Arthur, as a fan, knew the general story, but could not have known what the everyday reality had become for Curt once it had ended, and Brian had viciously bad mouthed him, not so much to the press, although he did get in a few digs there, but worse: to the industry. To be unceremoniously, and virtually overnight, cut off and cut _out_ , with surgical precision, of not only his contract (and therefore sole source of income), but a whole scene, a world; what had been a fairly substantive support structure ...

If there was one thing Curt had always needed in his life, for fuck's sake, it was _structure_. Even if life in the glam fishbowl was a sick, fucked up circus, and it _was_ , it at least offered an impenetrable bubble of protection and security for it's inhabitants - a buffer from the real world.

When Curt was suddenly cut loose, the stress and humiliation of it seemed endless, including things like heckling and taunting by complete strangers; crude jeers from those on the street and in bars which stretched on for months and years. Even people _in his own crowds_ got in on the act - calling him things like Brian's "bitchboy" and "come dumpster" and "Lucy" (whatever that meant).

(Had Curt had a sense of humor about it, he would have enjoyed the irony in the fact that all of the verbal abuse, which, several times, inevitably escalated into physical punch ups, revolved around the notion that Curt had bottomed for Brian - which for some reason people felt should be a source of shame - when in fact, with each and every encounter, it had very much been the opposite.)

The abuse, the lawsuits flying back and forth, the fact that the industry stopped returning his calls, the running down of his bank account to negative numbers, the inevitable drug relapse ... His only escape was to disappear; to make himself invisible.

Meaning, for a long while, Curt felt unable to do the one thing that had always been his saving grace, that had fed his soul, and balanced his unstable psyche: sing, and play music.

* * *

These were not things that Curt had shared with anyone, nor, to this point, had he intended to do so with Arthur, as it would, he was sure, accomplish nothing, this dredging up of bile and pain. However ... how to rebound from, how to _explain_ , without the back story, the black mood that had just descended upon and between them, obliterating, at least momentarily, their connection, their intensely strong drive towards one another?

Not to mention the highly erotic mood they had just both been in?

How to explain that he wasn't actually nuts - that he really _did_ have very good reason - much more than Arthur could know - to flinch when he heard Brian's name?

* * *

As irrational as it was, Curt also felt mild anger at Arthur for being a fan to begin with. Was there no chance, Curt thought, for him _ever_ to meet someone halfway decent who had _no actual clue_ who he was, or rather, who he had once 'been', long ago?

Nor any familiarity or interest in Brian fucking Slade? At least that way, there would be no chance of the bastard coming between them ...

* * *

The utterance also served to prod at his biggest insecurity with Arthur - the fear that he saw Curt as the 'guy on stage', and not himself. However, as Arthur searched Curt's face, appearing at any moment, ready to hang himself, it made Curt feel rotten. The kid didn't deserve it - to be doubted, and crucified - just because he'd uttered a fucking name.

It wasn't his fault that it was the equivalent of stepping on a landmine.

The realization of which turned Curt's anger squarely back where it belonged - onto the shoulders of Brian Slade. The bastard had hurt him in innumerable ways, casting a long, dark shadow over his life, with many tentacles. All of which Curt had no control over.

What he _did_ have control over, he realized perhaps for the first time, was Brian's ability to continue to wreck havoc in his life, and to hurt those he cared about.

* * *

"Listen," Curt said, softly laying a hand on Arthur's shoulder, knowing without looking that their mutual erections had vanished. "Why don't we take a break, here, a minute." He smiled and shut off the shower. "We're getting super wrinkly."

* * *

They stepped out and toweled off in silence, Arthur feeling like he wanted to die, convinced he had committed the largest, most easily avoided, catastrophically idiotic faux pas the world had ever known. Convinced that because of it, it was all over.

Curt could read it in the despondent posture, in the stunned, stressed expression in his face.

He hated Brian for it.

* * *

"Arthur," he said tenderly.

He stopped his toweling and wordlessly looked at Curt.

 _"It's okay,"_ Curt said. He waited a moment, wanting his reassurance to sink in. He also waited because it was hard for Curt to talk about Brian at all, even in passing. He took a breath, steeled himself and spoke. "You're right in what you said. Brian was ... insanely hot, at the time. Like no one I'd ever met. Honestly, the kind of sexy he was ..." Curt half smiled, "should've been _illegal_."

Arthur didn't smile. He was waiting for the shoe to drop, for Curt to make his excuses, and walk straight out the door.

"But ..." he continued, "he was a pretty poisonous presence in my life, as I think you may know-"

"-I'm so sorry. I should never have mentioned him."

"No, Arthur, what I'm trying to say is, really when I reflect on it ... what is awkward about you mentioning him is ... that it would even still _be_ awkward at this point, all these years later. It shouldn't be."

"I'm sorry."

Curt was trying to make Arthur feel better, he was trying to salvage the situation, but it didn't seem to be working. Jesus _Christ_ he hated Brian.

"It makes me feel bad that you would feel the need to apologize. _I'm_ the one who should, for reacting the way I did. You did _nothing wrong._ I just have a ton of baggage about it, that's all. Not your fault."

"I'm sorry."

All Arthur could hear was that he'd poked at _baggage_ , at _awkward_ and _poisonous_ _._ All he could feel was that he'd committed an error so grave as to be insurmountable. He wasn't hearing Curt's words. He was hearing only: _"Um, this thing you maybe thought you and I had? Think again."_

Curt wrapped the towel around his waist and tucked it in by his hip. He leaned back against the sink and looked at Arthur, so alluring, with his damp hair and sad puppy dog eyes. They had so much potential, Curt thought. Everything seemed to be in place. It was the best start to a relationship Curt could kind of ever remember.

He wasn't about to let Brian ruin it.

* * *

He approached and laid a hand just above Arthur's hip, on the still-warm flesh above the towel.

"I have a lot of issues, Arthur, but you know what I'm _not_ gonna let happen here, is my idiot Brian baggage getting in the way of things I want. Of _this_ ," he said, and kissed him.

* * *

Curt and Arthur spent the day together, wandering around London on bike and foot, starting out at the Tate Modern, as Curt had never been, ogling the crazy, inexplicable sculptures and 'think pieces', (which Arthur found "weird and intriguing", and Curt found "ugly and pretentious"), and tagging along on a guided tour, each still left scratching his head by the end, over the splashes of paint that passed for "art".

When the church bells then rang nearby, seeing as it was Sunday, they giddily rushed over and attended mass at St Martin in the Fields - in the rear pew, closest to the door - the two incapable of keeping from giggling over long haired, spawn of Satan Curt Wild inside a church.

Arthur was surprised to learn afterwards, however, that Curt had visited churches, temples, and even a mosque and synagogue, when they would let him in, on a semi-regular basis over the years, while on tour, despite being a staunch atheist.

"It wasn't for religious reasons, obviously, and besides, I was usually covered in glitter and eyeliner from the night before, so I would usually just pop in rather than go to mass or the service, or whatever, cuz it was just ... on the road, it was a refuge from the insanity. The places were soothing and relaxing, and I'd just sit there staring at the stained glass and the old fixtures. In Europe, especially, the buildings are so old and beautiful, and then there'd be these huge antique organs and, when I was lucky, some absolutely amazing choirs. I mean, _wow_."

"Oh god, I totally love them, too. Always have, despite, or perhaps because of being made to go to church as a kid. There's a really old one near the town where I grew up. Tiny, beautiful stone structure with the most incredible stained glass you've ever seen. Built in 1100."

" _1100?_!"

"Yes. Have you been to _All Hallows?_ It's a quick ride from here. Founded in 675."

" _675_!?"

" _Yes_. Plus, it's supposed to be haunted."

 _"Ahhhh!"_ Curt squealed. _"Wicked!_ We are _so doing this!"_ he shrieked.

* * *

The two dashed off on their bikes, but were disappointed when they arrived to find that a wedding was going on.

"Who the fuck gets married in a haunted church?" Curt asked, disappointed.

"Goths? Oh, well," Arthur shrugged. "Next time."

"Where to now?" Curt asked, grinning. "I'm really digging the _Arthur Stuart Tour of London."_

Arthur grinned.

"I feel a bit guilty. You've lived here for 6 years, so maybe some of this is-"

"-Oh my god, you've shown so much shit me I didn't even know _existed_ , even though it was all right under my nose. So no, if you were gonna say this is somehow dull for me, I promise you, it isn't."

"Okay," Arthur smiled. "But tell me if it is."

"I will, but it won't be. So where to, now, sir? I'm super down with more, if ya want."

"Okay, well ... maybe ... I mean, some people don't care for 'em, but ... how do you feel about cemeteries?"

Curt grinned.

"You're kinda perfect, you know that? I fucking _love_ cemeteries. On tour, it was another one of the things I tried to hit, when i could. The older, and grungier, the better."

* * *

Arthur, high as a kite, pedaled with Curt over to one of his very favorite secret-ish London spots. Not just a cemetery, but a derelict one - the rambling, ancient St Pancras burial ground. Despite being in the heart of the city, it was largely secluded - surrounded by overgrowth and crumbling brick walls - a peaceful oasis of moss and vine, ruins and crooked headstones.

Curt was struck as they wandered through the place by the sadness of it, the lonely, unvisited graves, but also the stark, raw beauty of the untended grounds; the giant, swaying, ancient trees; and the eerie quiet.

"Christ, Arthur," Curt said, looking around in wonder. "I had no idea this was even here, and I've been to this neighborhood many times. It's fucking _fantastic_."

"Oh my god, I'm so glad you think so. I've brought friends here who didn't care for it. My friend Stephanie finds it creepy. To me it's a bit eerie, but also it just has this ... completely magical quality to it."

 _"Yes,"_ Curt nodded emphatically. "Definitely. It just _feels_ amazing in here. I think you're either a graveyard person, or you're not."

* * *

As they meandered amongst the headstones, Curt and Arthur took note of the wonderful old world names; those that hadn't been worn away by time and the elements. They found that they each simultaneously loved, and found hideous, ones such as "Ezekiel" and "Ichabod", "Zebediah" and "Uriah", "Abel" and "Hiram" and "Ebenezer".

"Like Ebeneezer _Scrooge_!" Curt shrieked.

But by far, Curt's favorite was "Zacchaeus".

"I mean, Jesus Christ - _Zacchaeus_?! How fucking nuts is that?!"

Arthur laughed.

"I know. It's ugly, but it's so formal, it's beautiful, in a way. I remember a bible story from when I was a kid that had that name in it. Zaccahaeus was the tax collector, I believe, and hence, vilified. The townspeople drove him up a tree."

"Poor bastard., but then, based on what I was made to fork over when I had money, I understand."

Arthur laughed again.

"Okay," he said, pointing, "way over there, there's a bit of a view, facing south towards the river. Worth the hike."

"Cool. Let's do it," Curt said with a nod.

This one thing - Curt's enthusiasm - particularly thrilled Arthur. To not only be able to show Curt around one of his all time favorite haunts, which none of his friends cared for, and so he would end up visiting it alone, but to have him seemingly love it as much as he did, completely blew his mind. He'd been through such an emotional roller coaster the past few days, being afraid that the thing that hadn't existed a week before would cease to exist altogether. But today, he'd gone from feeling like it was over, in part because he and Curt had nothing in common - which they didn't, really, on paper - to the joyful realization that paper isn't stone. It can be filled in, greatly enriched, with new chapters and stories.

* * *

When they arrived at the far end, Arthur, whose pride in and love for London was obvious, pointed out the spires in the distance, and discussed various bits of history and lore.

Curt was blown away. By Arthur, by his passion and level of knowledge; by everything.

"Jesus Christ, man. This place is so fucking cool. Thank you _so much_ for bringing me here. Seriously. I just had no _idea_."

"I'm so glad you like it," Arthur said, beaming. "It's one of my very favorites. A total hidden gem."

" _Yes_. I don't understand why your friends wouldn't automatically fall in love with it. But, I'm like that with graveyards. It sounds sick, but to me, they're like, romantic. I don't mean lovey dovey shit, I mean like ... they're full of _stories_."

"Yes," Arthur nodded, "and _real_ history. The _lives_ these people lived."

"In a totally different time! I mean, imagine for every single grave here, there were people standing around it back then, for the funeral or burial. Each of these people did something for a living. They probably lived nearby, and had people who cared about them-"

"-Who stood on these very same spots-"

"-And watch them get lowered into the ground, and prayers being said, and talked about their lives-"

"-Trading stories."

"Ya, I mean ... People say 'if walls could talk' - to me it's, 'if _graveyards_ could talk'."

"Oh, shit, and this place especially. Did you know that ...?"

Curt was practically hopping up and down in place as Arthur explained that in addition to the grounds being the site of body snatchings and grave robbings in the 1800s, St Pancras had not only a link to Charles Dickens and _A Tale of Two Cities_ , but - _"for fuck's SAKE!"_ Curt shouted - to the Beatles and _Hey Jude._

When he and Arthur then stumbled upon what they later learned was a lost underground river, Curt was so elated, he grabbed Arthur and kissed him.

* * *

As they began to head out, with Arthur explaining more bits of the history - because Curt kept asking him - and along the way introducing Curt to his very favorite headstones and half broken statues, Curt, who had lived his life on impulse, had a sudden urge to, and so he went ahead and did it - he took Arthur's hand.

It felt ... pretty ... damned ... _momentous ..._ to Arthur, no question, and it made him stop his monologue dead for a moment, because he couldn't possibly help it, but other than a brief, mutual glance and small smile, he otherwise played it cool as they walked on, hand in hand.

Curt knew it was a big deal - the first real time you not only take your lover's hand, but hold it, and _keep_ holding it - but what was especially pleasing to him was Arthur's understated 'reserved Englishman' response. He loved that about him. He found it, in fact, deeply sexy.

* * *

Curt thanked him again for sharing the place with him, and kissed him. He stopped, and they looked at each other, and Arthur kissed back. They stopped again and looked more, and soon, in the middle of the toppled headstones, they were making out. The place _was_ romantic to Arthur, in the way that starkly beautiful places always were to him, but he hadn't really wanted to let on. Romantic or not, though, it was inevitable that their desires would return to take them over, considering how close they were increasingly becoming, the corresponding uptick in the chemical attraction, and the abrupt ending everything had come to in the shower.

Though he didn't tend to be so, the impulsiveness, this time, belonged to Arthur, who dropped to his knees, muttering something about the need to "apologize for earlier" - a reference to his mention of Brian's name.

"I don't _want_ you to apologize," Curt said firmly.

Arthur responded by pressing his face, his open mouth, his teeth and tongue, directly into the neighborhood of Curt's zipper. Which, in a lifetime of sexual activity of all shapes and sorts, no one had ever previously done.

The shock of it, the newness and rawness, the bewitching combo of _risk_ and _filth_ , the sheer sight and insane sexiness of Arthur down on his knees, hungrily prodding and chasing and _driving_ at the cylindrical shape he was creating, instantly served to make Curt hard.

"Okay," he exhaled wearily, both hands gripping Arthur's hair, _"maybe I do."_

Arthur giggled, and brazenly lowered the zipper.

"Oh shit," Curt looked around nervously. "Seriously, Arthur, I-I don't want to be responsible for you getting arrested, and like, losing your job."

Arthur knew there was no chance. The place was perpetually empty.

"Shut up," he said. "You're not stopping me this time."

* * *

Arthur did not, in fact, stop. He was on fire, reveling in the act, in the intake and torment of hardened flesh, following Curt's moans, conversing with his gasps, pursuing leads (as a good reporter should), attuning himself directly to the rhythm and the language and the scent, shape, and sound of _things that worked_ and _things that worked better_ until Curt, who warned him ahead of time, let out a great hoarse cry, and came.

There was no way Arthur wasn't going to be there for the end, and take it in, and love it. It made him feel one million feet tall. Like Superman.

* * *

He was dizzy, he was sky high - they both were - as Curt helped him up, kissed him, and offered to - _asked_ to - return the favor.

"No," Arthur said, "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes. This," he said, making a circle in the air with his finger, _"was perfect."_

* * *

They clasped hands and walked off in silence, through and out of the grounds, each very much aware of the bond that was solidifying between them.

Upon their exit, as they were now out amongst the public, and in order to protect Arthur, whose career could end should be he 'outed', the two instinctively dropped hands. It sucked, but it was simply reality.

As it happened, the exit they had taken was near one of Arthur's favorite sidewalk vendors, and so they ordered lunch and proceeded to eat it on a bench by the river, watching London unfold before them.

Curt, was feeling elated, giddy and goofy, and announced that the setting was so gorgeous, they should sit there the whole rest of the day.

"We can move into this bench, can't we, Arthur? Live here together? You don't need that big fancy flat, right?"

"Right. This square meter over here, that's mine. The other end, that's yours. I'll bring out some blankets and pillows and the little gas cooker so we don't freeze at night-"

"-And I'll play my guitar and get us some busker money so we don't starve-"

"-Yes. No need for any more reporting from me. I'll quite my job, and we'll live off the coins people throw-"

"-And we'll get our meals strictly from the sidewalk vendors, or people walking by who take pity on us and throw us scraps-"

"-Oh, no one will take pity on us. We're so happy!"

Curt smiled, and the sentiment - the thing that Arthur had just jokingly blurted - hung in the air between them. Though it was said in jest, it began to unfurl before his eyes in full technicolor, like a truth unveiled: _he and Arthur were happy._

Curt was already feeling so high, not to mention relieved over how the day had panned out, and he now had this sudden, eerie epiphany, this crystal clear sense that he and Arthur maybe had a genuine chance - that they could actually make this work.

Paradoxically, in his excitement over the prospect of a happy future with Arthur, he felt himself reaching into his past, and the subject matter that had been raised in the shower. As clear as the sense was that they had a chance, it was suddenly just as clear to him that in order to move forward with Arthur, which he very much wanted to do, Curt would need to deal with the Brian issue, once and for all.

In order to eradicate the power that Brian still somehow had over him, he would need to quit running away, and in fact, bring Brian out into the open.

* * *

He sat for long moments pondering this. It felt very right in his gut as well as his brain, which was a rare occurrence for Curt, who tended to fly by the seat of his instincts, whether or not they had the world's lousiest track record.

Having essentially decided - having done, for him, what passed for "deciding" - he slid himself close on the bench.

"Arthur, I need to ask you a question."

"Okay," he said, turning to look at Curt, who looked back.

Curt took a breath. He began tallying it all in his head: He'd known Arthur less than a week. Arthur was a _reporter_. A reporter, and a _fan_. One whose most recent assignment had been to _investigate Brian Slade._

Curt was not normally one of those people who believed in 'fate', or 'destiny' - concepts that made his eyes roll - but the eerily strong bond he was feeling with Arthur, which seemed to having been growing practically by the minute, told him, deep down in his gut, that he could trust him; that it was okay to take the crazy chance.

No, it didn't make sense; of course it didn't. On paper it was a stupidly risky move, but then, wasn't 'paper' something you could modify, he thought; something that allowed for a wholesale rewrite?

Before he could weasel out of it, he pushed the words from his mouth.

 _"What would you say ... what would you say if I said I might maybe wanna talk about Brian?"_

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

Okay, well my god, it's actually done! This chapter took, and perhaps it doesn't at all seem it, but I would estimate it easily took 80 hours of work, spread over several weeks. At one point some weeks back I was ready to wrap it up, only to have the boys go in a totally unexpected direction, and to have the chapter balloon up to double it's then length.

As the reader will note, the last chapter ended with a rather direct plea from Curt for sex, and, trust me, I was planning to give that to him, a bit indirectly, but we were definitely going to get there ... only to have Arthur blurt the dreaded name - which I honestly had no plans for him to do - and which singlehandedly turned the story off into a completely different and wholly unplanned direction. Writing really is that weird, and out of the writer's hands; I swear.

As far as Curt's ass ... one need only see the VG scene in which he is on stage, pulling up those leather trousers over his beautiful naked bottom, to understand my reverence for Ewan McGregor's fine, shapely backside, and hence Arthur's fixation. I also like that he has gone from feeling revulsion at the notion of rimming, to fully and completely understanding it.

As far as places for them to visit in London, I felt in the prior chapters that I'd sort of thrown out generic, brief mentions, and I wanted this time to delve into one specific place in particular, a place that was special to Arthur, hence the St Pancras thing. I love cemeteries, have all my life, for the same reasons Curt and Arthur do - I find them sad and beautiful and I love the old names that aren't used anymore, and the history and stories behind it all. Europe is of course so much older than where I live (the States) and hence the history and stories will be that much more compelling and amazing. I was thrilled during my one and sadly only trip to Paris (so far) to visit the truly incredible Père Lachaise Cemetery - where Oscar Wilde among many others is buried - including Molière, Proust, Chopin, Gertrude Stein, Victor Hugo, Sarah Bernhardt, Isadora Duncan, and my favorite author as a kid, Jean de Brunhoff (who wrote the _Babar_ series). One could truly spend days in this place, wandering amongst the elaborate headstones and raised graves (for lack of a better term, as I don't know what those are called.) Anyway, in researching a central London cemetery for the boys to visit, I found a website that not only listed and photographed some of them, but did so for what it called "derelict" cemeteries - not a term I'd heard before. Ruins are another love of mine, and the photos of the places with broken, moss covered headstones and ancient churches featuring only a few intact walls did it for me - Curt and Arthur were going to visit there. St Pancras is actually apparently only an old-ish church (1800s, not exactly "ancient"), with a few leftover headstones, so the description I provided is more a mashup of several I'd read about in and around London. I wanted to paint the picture of a large, rambling, forgotten place that was somehow hidden even though it was in the center of the city. Btw I just learned when writing this author's note that Mary Wallstonecraft was buried here, and that there is also a link with Thomas Hardy. I'm not sticking these two facts back into the story as it would make it seem that much less likely that the place would be so barren and unvisited.

The St Pancras' link to _A Tale of Two Cities_ and to the Beatles - who had themselves photographed all over the cemetery/church grounds for the promotion of their then single _Hey Jude_ \- is true. As is the grave robbings, which apparently was a frequent occurrence in the 1800s

Regarding the sex that takes place, I almost didn't include it at all. The story was going to go from Curt hopping up and down in excitement about the connection with The Beatles (what is maybe his all time favorite band, as it is mine), to them walking out of the place, and going to get lunch from the sidewalk vendor. I remember thinking, can I do it? Can I _actually_ have a sex-free chapter? Me?! But then the idea popped into my filthy mind regarding a funny little exchange they might have - with Arthur saying this is his way of apologizing, and Curt almost snapping at him that he didn't _want_ a damned apology - only to have him mutter that, um, maybe he did.

I certainly didn't expect the chapter to come around to Curt deciding to talk about Brian - never entered my mind at any point in this entire story nor did I have plans for this at any point - yet there it was. I don't even have a clue how I'm going to do that, honestly, or even if it's a good idea. Realistically, they really have only known each other a few days, and there is probably no way in hell Curt would decide to spill about this major, painfully ruinous part of his life to a virtual stranger, but I also like the notion that it speaks to how much of a connection these two already feel. The blurting of Brian's name in the shower and how that one thing pains Arthur so visibly just killed Curt, and made him see for the first time that Brian still had this power over him, and he's decided that the silence about it - the refusal to acknowledge what happened and get it out of his system - is what has helped fuel it's power and so he's (I guess) done with that.

So okay, that's long enough, don't you think? Thank you for reading. And please, please, do send feedback - good and/or bad - doesn't matter. After all this writing and thought and sweat and labor and research, I really would love to hear from you.

 **UPDATE:**

Reader extraordinaire Cobainlover4ever has pointed out that there are some hardcore sex practices also known as "edge play". I just would therefore like to clarify that while Curt is a very sexual being and I can easily see would be into consensual raunch and kink, the 'edge play' I was referring to was of the rather vanilla but still quite steamy variety. Ie when Curt realizes that Arthur is 'on the edge' (of orgasm, obviously), he wants to 'toy' with him about it, meaning engaging in the sort of 'play' in which you repeatedly bring your partner to the edge of orgasm, then back off. The idea being that the buildup when you finally bring your partner off is that much more intense. For readers of my original Brian/Curt story ( _The Erotic Adventures of Brian and Curt_ ), you may recall that Brian does this to Curt in an early chapter.


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